ir.*. 


» M • ' I . Mo i* , 

! ’ /ti OVti 
i • .■ • f i ■ i** 

- » ’ I * M I I-; I' 

I' •;,!>, ■ r .4 

< ■ *• I - 1 ' j 1 4 i 

J j ; I ji i> 14 t 
! '•’ » ■* r y M ' <•<< (ii 
I :i w>:! t /:« V" 

•I f M • I < 1 , I'l K 
't > I ' » / M VM: J >. i £H. 

' l-i I i;r, 




' i 1 j »( 'i < • . ij ) Ji, 

i . u ' nil jM {}j 

; - n h-M M I H , M h , . i-,. ^ .> i-ntlli, i S 


‘ W i ,,., M [ .-^I M- , , ;1 , 

' ) • 1 J M * » V I . ( • ] 1 4 1 1 . > < 1 . 1 . . . . : . ^ ^ ■ f I V* • 


. J > 4 ; 

■UiJi 


• / I f ' in 1 j If M m;-- ^ 1 •' f « / ■ » • j'l f * ' 


H >4 











COPXRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



F 



. * >•. 

V ✓ • . . 



I 

■ H 

f 

i 






1 


I 



/ 







LITTLE HEATHER-BLOSSOM 


(ERICA.) 


TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF 


FRAU VON INGERSLEBEN, 

BY 

MARY J. SAFFORD. 


WITH ILLU8TBATJ0NS BY WARREN B. DAVIS. 


12mo. 470 Pag«s. Handsomely Bound in Cloth Price, $1.00. 
Paper Cover, 50 Cents. 


This novel is one of the most interesting that has been pub- 
lished in this country, taken from the German. It has more 
variety of character and scenery than is usual in German novels. 
All admirers of Marlitt will find it a novel to their taste. Miss 
Safford, the translator, who was the first to discover the merit of 
Werner and Heimburg, is very partial to it. Among its salient 
points are a wreck, a runaway, life in a castle on the Rhine, with 
its terraces sloping to the river, balls, entertainments and exqui- 
site character sketches. The heroine is one of the loveliest 
creations of fiction. 

F or sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


f 



1 

« 

\ 






\ 






y 


V 










s 





fk. 


I 


n 




0 


GLORIA. 



% 


\ 



Works l)y 

MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH. 

UNKNOWN. 12II10., 692 pages. 
Illustrated. Handsomely bound 
in cloth, price, $1.00. Paper 
cover, 50 cents. 

THE HIDDEN HAND. 12nio., 
600 pages. Illustrated. Hand- 
somely bound In cloth, price, 

$1.00. Paper cover, 60 cents. 

NEABEST AND DEAREST. 12- 
mo., 572 pages. Illustrated. Hand- 
somely bound in cloth, price, 

$1.00. Paper cover, 60 cents. 

A LEAP IN THE DARK. 12mo., 
556 pages. Illustrated. Hand- 
somely bound in cloth, price, 

$1.00. Paper cover, 60 cents, 

THE LOST LADY OF LONE. 12- 
mo., 561 pages. Illustrated. Hand- 
somely bound In cloth, price, 
$1.00. Paper cover, 60 cents. 

FOR WOMAN’S LOVE. 12mo„ 
486 pages. Illustrated, Hand- 
somely bound in cloth, price, 
$1.00. Paper cover, 60 .cents. 

THE UNLOVED WIFE. 12mOn 
374 pages. Illustrated. Hand- 
somely bound in cloth, price, 
$1.00. Paper cover, 60 cents. 

LILITH. 12mo., 399 pages. Illus- 
trated. Handsomely bound in 
cloth, price, $1.00. Paper cover, 
50 cents. 

GLORIA. 12mo. Illustrated. Hand- 
somely bound in cloth, price, 
$1.00. Paper cover, 50 cents. 

DAVID LINDSAY: A Sequel to 
“Gloeia.” 12mo. Ulus. Hand- 
somely bound in cloth, price, 
$1,00. Paper cover, 50 cents. 


MRS. 





THE CHOICE SERIES 


G L O R I A . 


51 NoDel. 




V -A BY 


A', . 


'r 


E.^'D." E.N. SOUTH WORTH, 


Author of The Hidden Handf etc. 


WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY F. A. CARTER. 




coo 




0,. 


J i -jlr ■' S'lGi 


li 


m 


r 


( ... 




NEW YOKK:> 

ROBERT BONNER'S SONS, 

PUBLISHERS. 


3 


: ISSUED SEMI-MONTHLY. SUBSCRIPTION PRICE, TWELVE DOLLARS PER ANNUM. NO. 4B, 
ENTERED AT THE NEW YORK, N. Y., POST OFFICE AS SECOND CLASS MAIL MATTER, 


NOVEMBER 1, 1891. 








Copyright, 1877 and 1891 





BY ROBERT BONNER’S SONS. 


{All rights reserved.) 



4 • 







GLORIA. 


CHAPTER I. 

A SPOILED BEAUTY. 

Her eyes flashed fire ! Convulsive rage possessed 
Her trembling limbs and heaved her laboring breast ; 
Blind to the future, by this rage misled. 

She pulled down ruin on her reckless head. 

Dryden. 


AVID LINDSAY, will you marry me ?” 
The speaker was a girl scarcely past 
childhood, young, beautiful, good, 
wealthy, and yet — desperate, as not 
only her words, but her every look, tone, 
and gesture proved. 

Her voice was low, her tone steadied 
by a powerful self-control. She stood 
there with a pale horror, yet fixed reso- 
lution, on her face ; as one might stand 
on the deck of a burning ship, wrought up to choose 



8 


Gloria. 


death between fire and water, ready to escape the flames 
by plunging into the sea. 

He to whom she spoke was a poor fisherman on the 
estate, young, strong, healthy and handsome, with the 
good looks that youth and health give, but bronzed by 
exposure, roughened by toil and rudely clothed. 

The scene of this strange interview was a small, sandy 
island on the coast of Maryland. The time, an over- 
clouded and blustering morning near the end of Jan- 
uary. 

He had been hard at work mending his boat, which 
lay bottom upwards on the beach, when she came sud- 
denly upon him. 

Then he stood up, took off his old tarpaulin hat, and 
respectfully waited her orders. 

What a contrast they formed, as they stood there fac- 
ing each other — she, the delicate, patrician beauty, 
wrapped in richest furs and finest velvets, yet with that 
look of pale horror and fixed resolution on her beautiful 
face ! — he, the hardy son of the soil, bronzed and rugged, 
clothed in a rough pea-jacket and loose corduroy trow- 
sers, with their legs tucked into high, coarse, bull-hide 
boots ; robust, erect, cordial, yet with a look of 
unbounded astonishment in his fine dark e3^es . 

They might have been the last young man and maiden 
left in the world, for all sign of human life or habitation 
near them, as they stood on that little sterile isle— 
around them the dark-gray sea roughened by a high 
wind — behind them the mainland in its wintry aspect of 
skeleton forests, rising from snow-clad hills. 

“ David Lindsay, will you marry me ?” repeated the 
girl, seeing that he had not answered her question, but 
stood before her dumbfounded with amazement. 


A Spoiled Beauty, 


9 


“ Miss de la Vera V* was all that he could utter, even 
now. 

I know that you love me,” she continued, speaking- 
now with more vehemence, and looking over her 
shoulder, from moment to moment, as if, even in that 
remote, sea-girt isle, she dreaded espionage, eavesdrop- 
pers, discovery, pursuit, arrest. “ I know that you love 
me, David ! It is that which gives me courage to come 
to you for refuge in my dreadful desperation. I know 
that you love me, for I heard you say so once — when 
you saved my life that time at the imminent risk of 
your own.” 

“ And, oh, is it possible Muo-tyou can love me breathed 
the young man, in deep tones vibrating with his heart’s 
profound emotions ; for with his whole heart he had 
loved her, deeply, ardently, hopelessly ! — with his whole 
soul he had worshiped her, afar off, as some exalted and 
forever unattainable good. “ Is it possible that you can 
love meT" 

“ No !” she answered, hurriedly. “ I do not love you ! 
That is, I mean I love everybody, and you more than 
others ; but oh, David, feeling that you love me, for 
you told me so once — ” 

“ I was mad in my presumptuous folly — ” began the 
youth. 

“ Feeling sure that you love me, because you told me so 
once, although I do not love you yet more than others, 
I will be your wife and try to love you more, if only 
you will take me far away from this place at once and 
forever, David ! If you ever cared for me, stop to ask 
no questions ; but do as I ask you, and you shall have 
my hand and all that I possess !” she breathed hardly, 


TO 


Gloria, 


looking over her shoulder at intervals, with a nervous, 
expectant, terrified manner. 

“Miss de la Vera, it \^you who are mad now !’* he 
replied, in a tone of ineffable sadness and longing, as 
he gazed on her with something like consternation. 

And well he might ! The situation was astounding ! 

Here was this young girl, Gloria de la Vera, the 
daintiest beauty, the wealthiest heiress in the country, 
proposing to marry him, the poor young fisherman 
attached to the estate ! It was wonderful, unprece- 
dented, incredible ! 

Why, half the young men in the community were 
mad to get her. A smile of hers would have brought 
the best of them to her feet. 

And yet she came to give her hand and her fortune 
to this poor, unlearned young fisherman ! 

“ Nothing, nothing but temporary insanity could have 
betrayed her into such a reckless proposal,” said the 
young fisherman to himself. 

Yet the girl who stood there before him, calm, pale, 
and steadfast as a marble statue, was not insane — no, 
nor immodest, nor unmaidenly, however appearances 
might tell against her. 

Neither had she done any wrong, or even suffered 
any wrong ; for she had scarcely a fault in her nature 
to lead her into any evil, and never an enemy in th&: 
world to do her any injury. ^ 

Nor had she quarrelled with a betrothed lover and 
sought to revenge herself upon him by rushing into 
this low marriage ; but she had never been in love and 
never been engaged. 

Neither did she hurry towards matrimony as a refuge 
from domestic despotism, for she was the petted dar- 


A Spoiled Beaiity, 1 1 


ling of a widowed and childless uncle, who had been a 
father to her orphanage ; and she had had her own right 
royal wdll and way all her little life. 

If there were any despotic tyrant at old Promontory 
Hall, that tyrant was the dainty little beauty, Gloria de 
la Vera herself, and if there were any “down-trodden” 
slave, that victim was the renowned military hero. 
Colonel Marcellus de Crespigney ! 

Why, then, since no reasonable, nor even unreason- 
able motive could be found for the mad act, should 
Gloria de la Vera wish to hurl herself headlong down 
into the deep perdition of a low and loveless marriage. 

To elucidate the mystery we must narrate the inci- 
dents of her short life. 

On the coast of Maryland there is a bleak head of 
land thrown out into the sea, and united to the main 
only by a long and narrow neck of rocks. 

If this weird headland had been a little loftier it 
would have been a promontory — or if the neck of rocks 
had been a little lower it would have been an island. 

As it happened, it was neither, or it was both ; for, 
at low tide, when the neck was bare, the head was a 
promontory, and at high tide, when the waves rolled 
over the rocks, it was an island entirely surrounded by 
the sea. 

The ground arose gradually from the shore to the 
i^tre, upon the highest and safest part of which stood 
a large, square, heavy, gray stone building, in a yard 
inclosed by a high stone wall. 

Lower down on the shore was another wall, called the 
sea-wall. 

Beyond this, on the sand, were a few scattered fishing 
huts and boat-sheds. 


12 


Gloria. 


There was but little vegetation on the place, and the 
nearer the shore the sparser the growth. On the hill 
near the house, indeed, there were a few old oaks, said 
to have been planted more than two centuries before 
by the first owners of the soil and builders of the house. 
There were also a few gigantic horse-chestnnts and 
other fine forest trees ; but all these had been trans- 
planted from the main land ages before. There was 
nothing of native growth on the promontory. 

Behind the house was an old garden, where “ made 
soil ” was so rich that the place had grown into a per- 
fect thicket of shrubs, vines, creepers, bushes, and all 
sorts of hardy old plants, fiowers, and fruit-trees. 

Behind this was a kitchen garden, where a few vege- 
tables were with difficulty raised for the use of the 
family, and beyond were fields of thinly growing grass 
and grain, that barely afforded sustenance for the cattle 
and sheep on the premises. 

Altogether this half sterile promontory, with its 
square, massive gray stone mansion, its high stone yard- 
wall, its strong stone sea-wall, its iron gates, and its 
grim aspect, looked more like a fortress or a prison than 
the hereditary home of a private family. 

The locality had also a bad reputation, and a worse 
tradition, besides as many aliases as any professional 
burglar. 

It was called Pirates’ Point, Buccaneers’ Bridge, and 
La Compte’s Landing. 

The story, or the history, was, that this place had 
been the frequent resort of the notorious freebooter. La 
Compe, whose nom-de-guerre of “ Blackboard ” had 
been, in the old colonial days, the terror of the Chesa- 
peake and its tributaries. 


A Spoiled Beauty. 


^3 


Vast treasure, it was said, had once been buried here, 
and might still be waiting its resurrection at the hands 
of some fortunate finder. 

However that might have been, whatever wealth of 
gold, silver, or precious stones might have lain hidden 
for ages in the depths of that sterile ground, it is cer- 
tain that the last proprietor of the promontory was poor 
enough. 

He was Marcellus de Crespigney, a retired officer of 
the army, an impoverished gentleman. 

At the time our story opens. Colonel Crespigney was 
a young widower, without children and without family, 
if we except his maiden aunt, Miss Agrippina de Cres- 
pigney, and his youthful ward, Gloria de la Vera. 

His history may be very briefly summed up. He 
was the second son of a wealthy Louisiana planter, whose 
estate being entailed upon the eldest male child, left 
little or nothing to younger brothers or sisters. 

Marcellus, when required to select a profession, being 
of a grave and studious disposition, would have pre- 
ferred divinity or medicine, but finally yielded to the 
wish of his father, and entered West Point Military 
Academy to be educated for the army. 

At the age of twenty-one he graduated with honors, 
and then went to spend a short leave with his parents 
previous to joining his regiment. 

He met them by appointment at Saratoga, which was 
at that time the headquarters and great summer resort 
of Southern families, flying from the fierce heat and 
fatal fevers of their native districts to the cool breezes 
and healing waters of the North. 

And here, Marcellus, or, as he was most frequently 
called, Marcel de Crespigney, met the great misfortune 


H 


Gloria, 


of his life, for here he first saw the lady who was des- 
tined to be his wife. 

Marcel de Crespigney was one of the handsomest men 
of his time. At the age of twenty-one he was as beauti- 
ful as Apollo. His form was of medium size and fair 
proportions, his head stately and well set, his features 
Romanesque in their regularity and delicacy of outline ; 
his hair and beard were dark brown, and closely curled ; 
his eyes dark hazel, with a steady, thoughtful, sympa- 
thetic gaze that had the effect of mesmerizing any one 
upon whom it fell. 

Such beauty is too often an evil and a cause of weak- 
ness in man. It frequently inspires and nourishes 
vanity, and saps and blights true manliness. 

Such, however, was not its effect upon Marcel de 
Crespigney. 

He had his fatal weakness, as you will presently dis- 
cover ; but that weakness did not take its root in self- 
love — quite the contrary. 

If he had possessed vanity, however, he would have 
found a surfeit of food for it. 

Wherever he appeared, he was noticed as the hand- 
somest man in the company, and many were the light- 
headed and soft-hearted girls who fell more or less in 
love with him. 

At Saratoga, in the immediate circle of his mother 
and sisters, he met a party of West Indians — the Count 
Antonia de la Vera, an aged Portugeuse grandee, his 
young wife, the Countess Eleanor, her sister, Eusebie 
La Compte, and their three-year-old daughter, named 
after the good Queen of Portugal, Maria da Gloria ; but 
for the radiant beauty of her fair complexion, golden 


A Spoiled Beauty, 


15 


hair, and sapphire eyes, which she inherited from her 
mother, they called her Gloria only. 

Of all the people present, this child took suddenly and 
solely to the young lieutenant. She would leave father, 
mother, auntie or nurse, to leap into the arms of her 
“Own Marcel,” as she soon learned to call him. It was 
wonderful ; and superficial people said it was his gay 
uniform that attracted the child — but then the child 
looked only at his eyes ! 

But there was another of the West Indian party who 
found great pleasure in the presence of Marcel de Cres- 
piguey. This was Miss Eusebie La Compte, the sister 
of the Senora Eleanor. 

Thcy^ the sisters, were not West Indians, but Mary- 
landers, orphan daughters and co-heiresses of old 
George La Compte, of La Compte’s Landing and 
Pirates’ Promontory. 

In the division of the estate after the death of their 
parents, the most valuable portion. La Compte’s Land- 
ing, had been given to the eldest daughter, Eleanor, 
and the least desirable. Promontory Hall, to the young- 
est, Eusebie. 

It was while the sisters were residing at the house of 
their guardian, an eminent lawyer of Washington City, 
that they made the acquaintance of the Count de la 
Vera, then ambassador from Portugal. He was a bach- 
elor, and attracted by the radiant blonde beauty of the 
elder sister, he had proposed for her hand. 

Eleanor, whose heart was free, and whose fancy was 
fascinated by the prospect of rank, wealth and position, 
promptly accepted the offer, and in due time became 
Madame de la Vera. 


i6 


Gloria. 


A brilliant season in Washington followed their mar 
riage, then a tour of the fashionable watering-places. 

Finally, when the ambassador was recalled, he went to 
Lisbon to resign his portfolio, and then he came back 
and settled down on his West Indian estates. 

But not for long. 

Troubles broke out. Possessions were insecure. 

Count de la Vera sold off his property and came to 
Maryland, the native State of his beautiful wife, where 
he invested largely in land. 

By this time the Senora Eleanor’s health began to 
fail. Then her doting husband sent for her sister to 
travel with her, and to help to relieve her of the care of 
their infant daughter, Gloria. 

They all went to Saratoga together, and thus it hap- 
pened that we found them in the company of Madame 
de Crespigney and her daughters. 

Eusebie La Compte, the heiress of the bleak promon- 
tory, had not the radiant beauty of her sister, whose 
brilliant complexion, shining golden hair and sparkling 
blue eyes had been inherited by her daughter ; no, the 
pale face, sandy locks and gray eyes of Eusebie formed 
but a tame copy of the brighter picture. 

Yet Eusebie could not be called “ plain,” and far less 
“ ugly.” Her form seemed cast in the same mold as 
that of her beautiful elder sister, only it was thinner. 
Her profile had the same classic facial angle, but it was 
sharper. Her complexion was quite as fair, only it was 
paler. Her hair was of the same color, only it was duller. 
Her eyes were of the same hue, but they were dimmer. 

If Eusebie had been healthy and happy, she would 
have been as beautiful and brilliant as her sister ; or if 
she had been smitten, as Eleanor had, by hectic fever 


A Spoiled Beauty. 


17 


only, which gives color to the cheeks and light to the 
eye. But to be afflicted with malaria, which dulls the 
complexion and dims the eyes, is quite another thing. 

Nevertheless, there were times when Eusebie was 
almost beautiful. It was when any strong emotion 
flushed her cheeks and fired her eyes. 

The West Indian party did not go much into society. 
The health of Senora Eleanor forbade their doing so. 
The only company they saw was our party from Louis- 
iana. 

The illness of the mother and the negligence of the 
nurse, threw the little Gloria very much upon the care of 
Eusebie, who was almost always to be found in Madame 
de Crespigney’s circle. 

Thus it happened that Eusebie and Marcel were 
brought daily together, and united by their common 
interest in the beautiful child, Gloria. 

So Eusebie, the pale, agueish girl, fell in love with 
the handsome young Marcel — fell in love with him, not 
after the manner of the soft-hearted girl, who sighed 
in secret and slipped out of sight, but after the manner 
of the woman who says to herself, “ Love or death,” 
and thinks towards her victim, Your love or your life !” 

Marcel de Crespigney being of a tender, affectionate, 
sympathetic nature, had been more or less in love all 
the days of his youth. In earliest infancy he was 
ardently in love with his nurse. At five years old he 
was passionately enamored of his nursery governess, a 
bright young Yankee girl. And when she married the 
Methodist minister, Marcel wept fears of agony. 
His Sunday-school teacher, an amiable old maid, was 
his next flame. When she died of yellow fever he put 
crape on his little cap and flowers on her grave. 


Gloria. 


Then followed, as queens of his soul, — his sisters’ 
music mistress, his mother’s seamstress, and the over- 
seer’s sister-in-law. At the age of fifteen he actually- 
offered marriage to the doctor’s widow, a genial, soft- 
eyed, warm-hearted matron of thirty- five, who, in her 
wisdom 'and goodness, refrained from wounding his 
affection by contempt, but gravely and kindly assured 
him that, though she declined to be engaged then, yet 
she would wait for him, and if he should be in the same 
mind five years from that time, she would listen to him. 

The boy left her, in ecstasies of hope and happiness, 
after vows of unchanging, eternal fidelity. 

But he did not remain in the same mind, which was 
fortunate, as the doctor’s widow also died, and — of yel- 
low fever. 

At the age of seventeen, when the young man entered 
West Point, as we have said, he would have speedily 
contracted a pure, platonic love for the colonel’s wife, a 
handsome and intellectual lady of middle age, only a 
high sense of honor warned him of the danger of such 
moral quicksands. 

After this the boy devoted himself to his militanr 
studies, and the sentiment of spoonyism soon gave place 
to the sentiment of heroism. 

Yes, Marcel de Crespigney had been in love nearly 
all his life ; but he was neither vain enough nor obser- 
vant enough to perceive the preference bestowed on 
him by his young lady friends ; nor would he ever have 
known the infatuation of Eusebie La Compte, had not 
his mother discovered and revealed it to him. 

In the eyes of Madame de Crespigney, the pale 
Eusebie seemed a very eligible match for her portion- 
less son. Report had exaggerated the riches of the 


A Spoiled Beauty, iq 


co-heiresses. The elder sister had married a Portuguese 
grandee. Altogether the connection seemed a good 
one in a social and financial point of view. 

Of course Madame de Crespigney did not set the 
matter before her son in that light. She knew Marcel 
too well. She adroitly directed his attention to the deli- 
cate girl, and enlisted his sympathies for her, so that he 
soon perceived how the pale cheeks would flush, and 
the dim eyes fire, and the whole plain face grow radiant 
and beautiful in the love-light of his presence. His 
heart was free, and so he became interested in her. 
He thought she was the first who had ever loved him, 
and so he grew to believe t!iat he loved her. 

At least he proposed to her and was accepted. 

As the young officer had but a month’s leave before 
joining his regiment, that was under orders to march 
for Mexico to join General Scott’s army on the first of 
September, and as the bride elect decided to accompany 
her intended husband, “ even to the battlefield,” the 
eiigagement was a short one. The wedding was hur- 
ried. 

On the morning of the twenty-fifth of August the 
young couple were quietly married in the nearest 
church, and immediately after the ceremony they set 
out for Washington, where Lieutenant de Crespigney 
joined his regiment, which was on the eve of departure 
for the seat of war. 

I do not mean here to tell over again, even the least 
part, the oft-repeated story of the Mexican War, but 
only to allude in the briefest manner to Marcel de 
Crespigney’s share in it. He went to Mexico, accom- 
panied by his bride, who was with him wherever duty 
called. 


20 


Gloria, 


She spent the first three years of her married life in 
camps, on battle- fields, and in hospitals, and so did her 
woman’s share of the work. 

He behaved gallantly from first to last, as is best 
shown by his military record. For, having entered 
the service at the beginning of the war with the 
rank of second lieutenant of cavalry, he left it at the 
close with that of colonel and brevet brigadier-gen- 
eral. 

At the earnest solicitation of his wife, he then 
resigned his commission and retired with her to pri- 
vate life, on her estate at Pirates’ Promontory, the 
principal wealth of which consisted in its great fish- 
eries. 

No children had come to them to crown their union, 
and this want had been a source of disappointment to 
the husband and humiliation to the wife, that even 
threatened in the course of time to estrange them from 
each other. 

They must have continued to live a very lonely life 
on their remote estate — the world forgetting, by the 
world forgot ” — but for circumstances that occurred in 
the first year of their residence at the Promontory. 

These were the deaths of the aged Count de la Vera 
and his fragile young wife, who passed away within a 
few days of each other, leaving their orphan child, 
Maria da Gloria, to the care of her maternal aunt and 
uncle, who gladly received her. 



CHAPTER II. 

MARIA GLORIA DE LA VERA 

A willful elf, an uncle’s child, 

And half a pet and half a pest, 

By turns angelic, wicked, wild. 

Made chaos of the household nest. 

Anon, 

Gloria was seven years old when she came to live with 
her uncle and aunt. She was too young and too bright 
to realize the loss she had sustained in the death of her 
parents, or to grieve long after them. And besides — 
was it a new affection, or was it a reminiscence of the 
old one ? She soon became devotedly attached to her 
uncle. 

It was a grim home to which the radiant child had 
been brought ; but nothing could dim the brightness of 
her spirit or depress the gladness of her heart — not old 
Promontory Hall with its gray, massive, prison-like 
structure, its high stone walls, and its dreary sea view, 
drearier than usual in the dull December days in which 
Gloria looked upon it — not even the deadening coldness 
that was creeping like a blighting frost between the hus- 
band and the wife — a coldness that the warm-hearted 
child felt rather than understood. 

This condition, it must be confessed, was the fault of 


22 


Gloria, 


Eusebie rather than Marcel. It grew out of the 
jealousy and suspicion that bad their root in her 
inordinate and exacting affection for him. 

Her self- tormenting spirit whispered that he had 
never really loved her, but had married her out of com- 
passion, or, worse still, that he had never even cared for 
her in any manner, but had taken her for her little fortune 
alone. She saw that, as the years passed away, and 
hope of a family died out, he was disappointed in the 
continued absence of children, and she persuaded her- 
self that he secretly hated and despised her for not 
giving them to him. 

All this wore out her health and spirits. 

And so she grew more and more irritable and petu- 
lant, often repelling his best-meant efforts to comfort 
and cheer her — telling him she wanted none of his capri- 
cious sympathy, his hypocritical tenderness ; she could 
live without either. 

All this he bore with the greater patience because he 
knew it could not last long — because he saw the fiery 
soul was burning out the fragile body, and because he 
felt that there was a grain of truth in the stack of 
falsehood. It was this — that he had married her for 
pity, or for such love as pity inspires. 

The coming of Gloria into this house of discord had 
been as the advent of an angel in purgatory. Her very 
presence had a mediating, reconciling power. 

Yet it must not be supposed that Gloria was a real 
angel, or that her coming brought perfect peace to the 
household. Far from this. Gloria had a fiery little 
spirit of her own that sometimes flamed out at very 
inconvenient times and seasons, and the most she did 
towards restoring harmony was to restrain by her 


Maria Gloria de la Vera. 


bright presence the expression of harsh feelings, and to 
prevent the estrangement breaking out into open war- 
fare. 

While they would be sitting silent and sullen, at the 
same fireside, in the long back parlor that looked out 
upon the leaden sky and sea of these dull December da5’’S, 
he would be apparently absorbed in the perusal of some 
favorite old classic author, she would be engaged in 
knitting, the glittering, fine, long needles glancing in 
and out between her delicate white fingers, in round 
after round of stitches — ^for she was a great knitter of 
lamb’s- wool hose— the child would be sitting on the car- 
pet somewhere near, earnestly employed in dressing 
her doll, drawing on her slate, or cutting figures out of 
paper — ^but always singing some little song to herself, 
filling the room with harmony. 

How could the sullen couple break into open warfare 
in her presence ? 

Yet sometimes they did so. A dispute would arise 
out of that dull silence, as a breeze would spring over 
the gray sea, and blow into storm in one case as in the 
other. 

The gust always arose from Eusebie’s quarter. And 
Marcel always got the worst of it. 

Often little Gloria would see him grieved, humiliated, 
yet silent and patient, under his wife’s false accusations 
and bitter reproaches. 

Then her soul would be filled with sympathy, her 
song would cease, her playthings drop, and she would 
get up and take her little stool and go and sit down by 
his side and slip her small hand into his and lay her 
bright head on his knee. 

This always quelled the nsing storm. It prevented 


24 


Gloria. 


Marcel from retorting, however much exasperated he 
might be, and it eventually silenced Eusebie, for no one 
can keep up a quarrel alone. 

Gloria’s interference did not always stop at sympathy 
for Marcel. It sometimes, indeed, broke out into right- 
eous indignation against Eusebie. 

On one occasion, she had heard her unhappy aunt 
taunt him with his want of fortune, and charged him 
with mercenary motives in marrying her. She had 
seen her uncle’s dark cheek flame, and had noticed how 
hard it was for him to keep his temper ; and she had 
left her play and gone and sat down by his side, and 
put her little arms around his knee and laid her shin- 
ing head upon it. 

That had soothed and silenced him. He could not 
give way to his evil spirit in the presence of the child. 

But, mind, when, at length, he arose and left the 
parlor, and Gloria found herself alone with her aunt, 
she rebuked that passionate woman fearlessly. 

“ You treat my uncle worse than you would dare to 
treat any negro slave on the promontory,” she exclaimed, 
in angry tears. 

“ He is not your uncle,” was all the lady said in 
reply. 

“He is your husband, then ! And you treat him 
worse than you would dare to treat any one else in the 
world, just because he is a gentleman and cannot retort 
upon you. You just dare to talk to old ’Phiaas you talk 
to him^ and she would give you such a tongue-lashing as 
you would not get over in a month.” 

“ If you do not cease your impertinence at once. Miss, 
I will give you such a whip-los^iing as you won’t get over 
in six !” exclaimed the angry woman. 


Maria Gloria dc la Vera. 


25 


“No you will not, auntie ! If you were to lay a whip 
upon me, only once, you would repent it all your life, 
and you would never have a chance to do it again. You 
are my auntie ; but my uncle is my guardian, and he 
would lead me out of this house and we would never 
return to it. You know that !” 

“ Oh, Heaven ! It is too true, for he loves me not at 
all !” breathed the poor woman, losing all self-command, 
and utterly breaking down in humiliation. 

In a moilient the child was at her side — at her feet. 

“ Oh, auntie, poor auntie, don’t cry ! I have been 
naughty, very naughty ! And I am sorry, very sorry ! 
Indeed you may strike me now, if you want to, for I do 
deserve it now !” she said, trying with all her heart to 
soothe the weeping woman. 

But Eusebie clasped the child to her bosom and burst 
into a passion of sobs and tears. 

“ I love you, auntie, dear. I do love you, and I am so 
sorry I was so naughty,” said the child, clasping the 
unhappy creature around the neck and lavishing caresses 
on her. 

But Eusebie only sobbed the harder for all this. 

“ And uncle loves you, auntie, dear, indeed he does, 
although you do always tell him that he doesn’t care for 
you. I know he does, for when you are — ” the child 
was about to say “ cross,” but checked herself in time, 
and continued — “ when you are unhappy he looks at you 
so pitifully.” 

“ Oh, Gloria, you don’t know anything about it, and I 
don’t want his pity. I am not a dog or a beggar,” 
exclaimed Eusebie, bitterly, as she put her niece from 
her lap and hurried from the parlor to her own room, to 
give unrestrained way to her grief. 


26 


Gloria. 


This heart-sick and brain-sick poor woman was the 
plague and curse of the household, and such scenes as 
these were of frequent occurrence. 

Little Gloria acted always as a peacemaker, and 
always successfully ; only once in a long time did her 
sense of justice rouse her indignation to the height of 
upbraiding her auntie,” and then her quick bursts of 
temper were followed by as quick repentance and repar- 
ation, She was very impulsive — 

** A being of sudden smiles and tears.” 

This swift impulsiveness, with its sudden action and 
reaction, was the keynote to her whole character, the 
“kismet” of her life. 

As yet she was the peacemaker of the house, and all 
within it felt that this had been her mission to the 
household. Even the old family servants put their 
heads together confidentially, or shook them wisely, 
while they whispered : 

“ Whatever de trouble is atween de two, marster and 
mist’ess done been parted long a merry ago if it hadn’t 
been for little Glo’.” 

Indeed, this Promontory Hall, with its high, enclosing 
walls, and the gray sea rolling around it, and the 
estranged, unhappy pair within it, must have been a 
very dull, dreary, and depressing home for any child 
who had not, like Gloria, an ever springing fountain of 
gladness in her own soul. 

As soon as the long winter was over, and the sun 
shone warm and bright, and the earth grew green and 
the sea blue, Gloria was out and abroad, with the earli- 


Maria Gloria de la Vera. 


27 


est birds and flowers, as bright as the brightest, and as 
glad as the gladdest. 

With the revival of all nature there was a great 
revival of business also in the fisheries appertaining to 
the Promontory and its neighboring isles. The place 
that was so solitary all the winter was now all alive with 
fishermen, whose huts and tents and sheds dotted all 
the little islands within sight from the promontory. 
No fishermen except those in the service of the family 
were allowed to haul the seines, or even cast a net from 
the home beach. 

Among the fishermen attached to the service of the 
family was a young lad of about twelve years old. His 
parents had passed away, leaving him in the care of his 
grandmother, who lived in a tiny, sandy islet that stood 
alone, half a mile east of the promontory. 

Who had been the original owner of the little sand- 
hill no one ever knew ; for the property was not of 
sufficient value to stimulate inquiries ; and, besides, it 
had been for ages past occupied by a family of squatters, 
the present representatives of whom were David Lind- 
say and his grandmother. 

It was on a brilliant May morning that the little 
Gloria, in her wanderings about the promontory, came 
to a broken part of the old sea-wall, and instigated by 
curiosity, clambered over the stones and looked out 
upon a long stretch of sands upon which sheds, huts, 
and stranded boats were scattered among nets, seines, 
sea-weed and driftwood. 

The child, standing in the breach of the wall, paused 
to gaze with interest on the rude scene that was so 
entirely new to her. 

Then she saw a boy seated amid a drift of nets and 


28 


Gloria. 


seines, with a reel of coarse twine and a large wooden 
needle in his hand, busy with some work that quite 
absorbed his attention ; for he neither saw nor heard 
the approach of the little girl. 

She, on her part, stood still and watched him with 
surprise and delight. 

The solitary child had not seen another child of any 
sort, white or black, girl or boy, for more than a year. 
She had lived only with grown-up people, and very 
“ scroobious ” and depressing grown-up people at that. 
Now her heart leaped for joy at the sight of an angel 
from her own heaven — another child ! 

What if he was a poor little lad, with a torn straw hat 
set on his tangled black curls, a sunburned face, a 
patched coat, trowsers rolled up to his knees, and below 
them naked legs and feet ? He was another child — an 
angel from her own heaven ! He had come with the 
sun and the spring, with the birds and the flowers. 
Here was the crowning joy of the season indeed. 

He would be her playmate. He would not rail and 
weep like Eusebie, nor sigh and groan like Marcel. He 
would be glad like herself. 

Without an instant’s hesitation she ran down to him. 

Children, when left to their own intuitions, are the 
most simple and natural democrats and republicans. 
They care nothing and known nothing of caste. When 
misled by others, they may become the most repulsive 
little aristocrats alive. 

She stood before him breathless, smiling. 

As for the boy, he looked up at her in pleased sur- 
prise at the brightest vision that had ever gladdened 
his eyes. 


Maria Gloria de la Vera, 


29 


“ Little boy !” she exclaimed, in a tone of kindly 
greeting. 

“ Yes, little girl,” he answered, as he arose, dropping 
his nets and taking off his torn hat. 

“ I’m so glad to see you !” she exclaimed, smiling. 

“ So am I, you. Will you sit down on the boat ? It 
is quite dry,” he said, as he pointed to the upturned 
skiff upon which he himself had been seated. 

Oh, yes, I thank you. I would like to sit down 
because I have been walking all over the promontory, 
and I am so tired,” she said, as she seated herself. 

“ Put your feet on this stone, the sands are damp,” 
said the lad, as he placed a flat piece of rock near her. 

“ Yes ; I thank you. And you sit down, too. Don’t 
you stand,” she continued. He obeyed the little lady, 
and seated himself beside her. 

“ Oh, I am so glad I found you !” she exclaimed, with 
dancing eyes. 

“ So am I you ; very glad,” he answered, quietly. 

“ Have you got anybody to play with ?” was her next 
question. 

“ No,” he replied. 

“ No more have I. What is your jiame, little boy ?” 

“ Dave.” 

“ Dave ? That means David, doesn’t it ?” 

“Yes, David ; but everybody calls me Dave.” 

“ Well, what else is your name besides David 

“ Lindsay — David Lindsay.” 

“ Oh ! Uncle reads to us about one — 

‘ Sir David Lyndsay of the Mount, 

Lord Lion, King at Arms.’ 

Was he any kin to you ?” 


30 


Gloria. 


“ No, there ain’t no kings nor lions about here,” 
replied the lad, laughing. 

I don’t know. / didn’t think there was any children 
or playmates about here ; but after finding you I should 
not wonder if I found kings and lions and — and dwarfs 
and fairies.” 

“ I never saw any about here,” said the lad, decidedly. 

David Lindsay, don’t you want to know what my 
name is ?” 

“ Yes, I do.” 

“ Well, then, why didn’t you ask me ?” 

“ Because — I don’t know — I didn’t like to.” 

“ Well, my name is Maria da Gloria de la Vera !” 

“ Oh ! what a long name !” 

“Yes, but it is a beautiful name, with a beautiful 
meaning.” 

“ What does it mean ?” 

“ I believe., but I don’t quite know, that it means the 
Glory of the Truth, or something like that.” 

“ It is too long.” 

“ Yes, it is long as it is spelt and written ; but not as 
it is pronounced, for it is pronounced Davero — Gloria 
Davero — and the colored folks have got it down to little 
Glo’.” 

“Oh, I like that ! Little Glo’ !” said the lad, with 
animation. 

“ Do you ? . I am so glad ? What does your name 
mean, David Lindsay ?” 

“ I’m blest if I know what it means, if it means any- 
thing at all.” 

“ But it must mean something, David Lindsay. All 
names do,” 


Maria Gloria de la Vera, 


35 


Lindsay ?” she exclaimed, with all a child’s eager delight 
in an anticipated holiday. 

To-morrow, if they will let you go. To-night when 
I go home, I will tell my grandmother, and she will have 
something to please you when you come, you know.” 

“ Will she ? Oh, how nice. I am so glad I found you. 
Arn'tyou glad you found me, David Lindsay ?” 

“Oh, I tell you! Yes, indeed ! I was so lonesome 
here.” 

“ So was I ! But we have found one another ; we 
won’t be lonesome any more, will we? We will have' 
such good times, won’t we now, David Lindsay ?” 

“ Ah 1” exclaimed the boy. 

“ But, oh, I say ! See here ! I can’t net any more. 
This hard twine hurts my fingers dreadfully,” said little 
Glo’, looking at her bruised digits. 

“ I thought it would. Put it up. It is dinner-time, 
too.” 

“Yes, I suppose it is, and I must go home,” said the 
child, rising reluctantly. 

“Oh, no, please don’t,” eagerly exclaimed the boy. 
“ Stay here and have some of my dinner.” 

“ Dinner !’ ” echoed little Glo’, looking all around 
them in vain search of a kitchen. 

“ I have brought it with me in a basket,” David 
explained, as he lifted a little ragged flag-basket from 
its hiding-place beside the boat. “ Sit down and have 
some.” 

“ Oh, yes, thank you, so I will ! I like that !” she 
answered, promptly re-seating herself. 

He then opened his basket, and took from it, first, a 
coarse crash towel, which he handed to her, saying ; 

“ Now please to set the table.” 


36 


Gloria. 


“ Set the table ?” she echoed, in perplexity. 

“ Yes, you know, spread that towel on the flat stone 
by you, and I will hand you out the things to put on it.’* 

“ Oh ! yes, I know — and play we are housekeeping !” 
she exclaimed, delightedly, as she laid the cloth. 

Then he handed her, in succession, a little cracked, 
blue-edged white plate, a broken knife and fork, a little 
paper of salt, another of bread, six hard boiled eggs, and 
a dozen young radishes, all of which she arranged upon 
the “ table ” with funny little housewifely care. 

‘‘ Now this will have to be broiled,” he continued, as 
he took from the bottom of the basket a smoked red 
herring on a cabbage leaf and laid it on the boat. 

“ Broiled !” echoed the little housekeeper, as she 
looked all about in search for a fire. 

“Yes,” he answered, laughing, as he went and 
gathered up some dry, decayed driftwood, and broke it 
into small chips, and piled it up on some stones. Then 
he took a tinder-box, flint and steel, from his pocket, 
struck a light, and kindled a fire. 

“ Oh ! that is grand !” exclaimed the delighted child 
as she watched him, for all this was play to her. 

When the fire had burned down to coals he laid the 
herring on it. 

A fine appetizing flavor soon arose. 

Little Glo watched the boy as he turned the herring 
until it was done, and then put it on the blue-edged 
white plate and set it on the table. 

“ Oh ! isn’t this just perfectly splendid !” again 
exclaimed the child, as the two sat down to the primi- 
tive meal. 

They chatted faster than they ate — at least little Glo* 
did. 


The GtrPs Mission to the Boy, 


37 


When it was over and the plates and knife and fork 
had been put back in the basket, the girl arose, very 
unwillingly, to depart. 

“ I must go now,” she said ; they will all be looking for 
me. But oh ! I have had just such a grand time, and I 
am so glad we found each other ! Ain’t you^ David 
Lindsay ?” 

“ Yes, indeed !” exclaimed the boy. 

She laughed, kissed her hand to him, and ran off 
home, singing as she went. 

This was the first meeting between Gloria de la Vera 
and David Lindsay, the poor fisher-lad, whom, a few 
years later, in her utter desperation, she asked to marry 
her ; but many strange events were to happen before 
she could be driven to such despair as to cast her beau- 
tiful and blameless self, with her rank and fortune, at 
the feet of this humble lad, “ unlearned and poor,” and 
lose herself in the deep dishonor of a low and loveless 
marriage. 


CHAPTER III. 

THE girl’s mission TO THE BOY. 

She was his star. Byron. 

Gloria, singing as she went, and skipping like a kid 
from point to point, over the breach in the sea wall, and 
dancing through the old grass meadows and turnip 
fields — ^hurried on towards her home. 

Suddenly her song ceased and she stood still. 


38 Gloria. 


She saw her uncle walking alone with slow and 
melancholy steps, and his head bowed down upon his 
breast. 

She would have spoken to him, but he waved his 
hand for her to go on to the house. 

She looked at him wishfully, hesitatingly ; but he 
only smiled sadly on her and repeated his gesture with 
more emphasis. 

Then she obeyed him and reluctantly went on. 

“ That was like meeting a ghost,” she said ; and she 
sang no more that day. 

She entered the house and met Sophia on her way 
through the hall with a pail of hot water in her hand 
and a look of indignation on her face. 

What’s the matter, ’Phia ? Has anything happened ? 
I met uncle outside the. park wall and he looked awful ! 
awful !” said the child. 

“ Well he mought,” replied the woman, wrathfully, 
“ There’s been the biggest row you ebber seed in yer 
life, and you not here to ’vent of it.” 

Was it auntie and uncle ?” inquired the child, in a 
tone of awe. 

Hi, who else ? Yes, honey, it was master and mis- 
t’ess and de debbil ! And you not here to carcumwent 
Satin !” 

“ Oh, dear me, I’m so sorry. How did it all happen, 
’Phia ?” • 

“ Hi ! How I know, chile ? I wa’n’t dere. It hap- 
pen in de long sittin’ room, in course, where dey most 
in gen’al sits. Fust fing we cullud people knowed was 
de bell rung wiolent, an’ I run up an’ foun’ mist’ess in 
fits an’ marster tryin’ to fetch her to. We toted her up 
stairs ’tween us an’ put her to bed. But soon’s ebber 


The GirTs Mission to the Boy. 


39 


she could speak she sent marster out o’ de.room. How 
does it allers happen, honey ? De debbil ! Dere’ll be 
murder done here some ob dese days — always the debbil, 
an’ dis time he had it all his own ’fernal way, ’cause 
you wa’n’t here to carcumwent him.” 

“ Oh, I am so sorry. Poor uncle ! poor auntie !” 
sighed the child, with a look of age and care coming 
over her bright young face. 

I’m mad s I ain’t a bit sorry ; I’m mad. If dem two 
fools was chillun, dey’d just get good hoopins for 
quarrelin’ so ; an’ bein’ grown-up ’dults, dey desarves 
hoopin’ ten times as much as chillun, ’cause dey’s big 
’nuff to know better ! I gwine up now to put her feet 
in hot water. I’d like to put him and her bofe in hot 
water up to deir necks, an’ keep ’em dere till they 
promise to ’have deirselves better !” exclaimed ’Phia, as 
she took up the pail and went up stairs. 

Gloria looked after her. She felt as if she ought to 
have rebuked the woman for her manner of speaking ; 
but then she did not wish to raise another domestic 
storm, and she knew that ’Phia had a temper that 
blazed up at a word, as stubble flames up at a spark. 
Indeed, if the child had been required to write ’Phia’s 
name, she would naturally have written it Fire, and 
thought that she was right. 

She hung her hat and sack on the hall-rack, and then 
went softly up to her aunt’s room to sit with her and 
be ready to run on any errand that was required. 

She sat patiently with her auntie all the afternoon, 
reading a volume of Peter Parley’s story-books. 

In the evening she left her, quietly sleeping, and went 
down stairs to make tea for her uncle. 

It was a rather silent meal. De Crespigney was 


40 


Gloria. 


absorbed in thoughtj and never spoke to the child 
unless she asked him some question and then he 
answered absently, though in the gentlest tone. 

After tea she left him sitting in his old leathern arm- 
chair by the small wood-fire that the chill air rendered 
necessary even in June, and she went up to her own 
room and crept into bed. 

The next morning Madame de Crespigney appeared 
at the breakfast- table as if nothing had happened. 
These stormy days are followed by calm mornings in 
the moral as well as in the physical atmosphere. 

Gloria knew from experience that after such a tem- 
pestuous misunderstanding as they had had on the pre- 
vious day, her uncle and aunt would have to be left 
alone to come to a reconciliation. She was also glad of 
such a good excuse to go out. 

So, directly after breakfast, she went up to her bed- 
room, opened her glass-doored bookcase, and after tak- 
ing down and putting Tip volume after volume, she 
selected two which she thought would be most bene- 
ficial and acceptable to her new friend — these were the 
charming school-books : Peter Parley’s First Book of 
Geography and Peter Parley’s First Book of History, 
then just coming into use, both profusely illustrated 
with maps and pictures. 

She put on her little rough-and-ready gray sack and 
her felt hat — for it was still chilly on the seaside in 
early June — took the two books under her arm and 
left the house. 

Singing as she tripped along, she hurried blithely 
down to the breach in the wall, where she found the 
fisher boy busily engaged in smoothing that passage by 
laying the fallen stones a little leveller. 


The GirTs Mission to the Boy. 


41 


“ Oh, good-morning, David Lindsay ! Will you take 
me over in your row-boat to see your grandmother this 
morning ?” she asked as she came up. 

Oh, yes, indeed I will, and glad to do it !” replied 
the lad, lifting his torn hat from his black curls and 
holding out his hand to help her across the broken 
wall. 

She sat down on the boat to recover her breath, while 
he said : 

I stayed here last night until ten o’clock, working to 
finish my nets, and so get time to take you over to-day. 
And then I came at daybreak this morning, and have 
been here ever since, so I have earned a holiday.” 

“ Oh, how good of you to take so much trouble for 
me ; but how could you see to do your work, after the 
sun went down ?” 

The stars came out. It was one of the brightest 
starlight nights I ever saw 1 Besides, netting, you 
know, is such mere finger-work, that I could almost do 
it with my eyes shut. Are you ready to go ?” 

Presently.' Sit down here by me, I want to show 
you something.” 

The boy seated himself beside her on the boat, and 
waited orders. 

Here,” she said, producing the First Book in 
Geography, and opening upon a page of engravings in 
sections representing the five races of man. 

“ Oh-h-h !” exclaimed the boy in delight, as he took 
the volume from her hands and gazed with devouring 
eyes upon the fascinating page. 

‘‘He had never seen a picture of an Indian, an 
Ethiopian, a Mongolian, or a Malay in all his life, and 
now he gazed in a breathless rapture upon these. 


42 


Gloria. 


Pictures were almost unknown to him — the pictures 
in his grandmother’s old family Bible and the half-a- 
dozen little illustrations above the fables in Webster’s 
Spelling book, being all that he had ever seen. 

Oh-h-h^ you can’t think how much I do thank you for 
lending me this splendid book !” he exclaimed, with 
fervent gratitude. 

“Oh, indeed I am ever so much obliged to for 
being so pleased with it ! It makes me feel so happy, 
you know ! But turn over the next page. Oh, there 
are ever so many more nice pictures in it !” 

“ Are there ?” he asked, and immediately turned the 
page to discover more and more treasures — Esquimaux 
and white bears of the Arctic circle ; elk, moose, and 
reindeer, and red Indians of the northern lakes and 
forests ; seals, beavers, Canadians, New England 
farms, churches, school-houses. New York seaports, 
shipping, and warehouses ; Western prairies, forests 
and rivers ; Southern bays, isles, and cotton planta- 
tions. 

“Oh! oh! oh!” 

What a treasury of happiness to the poor boy, hunger- 
ing and thirsting for knowledge, who had scarcely ever 
seen three books or a dozen pictures in his life before, 
and who had scarcely any conception of any world 
beyond the horizon of his natural vision ! 

And as yet he had seen only a few index pictures of 
North America. 

South America and all the Western Hemisphere was 
to follow in that delightful book. 

“ Oh, you never can know how much I thank you for 
this beautiful book !” he exclaimed, with enthusiasm. 

“ Why, don’t I tell you I am ever so much obliged to 


The Girl*s Mission to the Boy, 


43 


you for liking it so well !” said Gloria, her own blue eyes 
dancing with the delight of delighting. 

Over and over he turned the bewitching pages, find- 
ing more and more pleasure as he went on even to the 
end of the book — the picture of the Cape of Good Hope, 
with Cape Colony. 

He had taken some time to look through the volume, 
pausing long over each picture. So when he closed it, 
he arose and said : 

“ I could sit all day and night and look at this book, 
and forget to eat or sleep, I do believe ; but I reckon it 
is time for us to go now.” 

No, sit down again. I have got something else to 
show you,” she answered. 

He obediently reseated himself, and she put in his 
hand “ The First Book of History,” profusely illustrated 
with pictures of battles and conventions and portraits 
of military heroes and statesmen. 

‘‘Oh-h-h !” again exclaimed the boy, as he opened at 
a portrait of George Washington on one side, and the 
signing of the Declaration of Independence on the 
other. 

He turned over page after page, finding fresh food 
for intellect and imagination in every one, while the 
little girl watched him with her blue eyes sparkling in 
sympathetic pleasure. 

“ Oh, how rich I shall feel, with these two books to 
read every night ! I shall never go to bed at dusk when 
granny does because I am lonesome. I shall never be 
lonesome now,” he said. 

“ I am so glad, and so very much obliged to you tor 
being so happy over them, David Lindsay,” she repeated 
with more emphasis. 


44 


Gloria. 


There is no knowing how long the two children might 
have lingered, sitting side by side on the old boat — ^he 
poring with rapture over the book, she watching his 
enjoyment with ecstasy ; but the hour of noon came 
and passed, and the healthy young appetite of the boy 
would not allow him to forget to eat." 

“ Oh, how late it is !" he exclaimed, reluctantly closing 
the book just at the picture of General Washington 
receiving the sword of Lord Cornwallis after the battle 
of Yorktown. “ Come, we had better go now." 

“Well, yes, I suppose we had. You can read the 
books every night, can’t you, David Lindsay ?" 

“ Yes, indeed. And when you are up at the house 
enjoying yourself with all your friends, you may think 
of me reading your books." 

“ Oh ! they are your books, David Lindsay," she 
hastened to exclaim. 

“ I daren’t take them from you only as a loan ; but 
oh ! I can never thank you enough for that. Come 
carefully over all this rubbish. Let me take your hand. 
There, now step into the boat and sit down while 
I untie her. Don’t be afraid. She will not turn 
over." 

The child suffered him to put her into the rough little 
old shell that lay rocking on the sea. 

He quickly unmoored the boat, got into it, seated 
himself, and rowed towards the little sand-hill that 
seemed a mere mote on the water. 

David rowed vigorously, and the little skiff shot over 
the sea, and rapidly approached the island. 

First she saw the sandy little hillock ; next, that there 
was a tiny house on it, with trees on the farther side ; 
then, as the boat reached the shore and grounded, she 


The GirTs Mission to the Boy. 


45 


saw that the house was a small cottage with a gable 
roof and one chimney ; with one door and window on 
the ground floor, and one tiny, square window above 
in the gable. There were no shutters to the windows, 
but they were shaded from within by flowered wall- 
paper blinds. The little house was whitewashed with 
lime, and the door was' painted with red ochre, a coarse 
coloring matter got from the soil on the main. A little 
garden around the house, with a ^‘made soil,” was 
fenced in with a whitewashed picket fence. Lilies, 
Canterbury-bells, hollyhocks, pinks, larkspurs, and other 
sweet, old-fashioned flowers grew in the front yard. A 
red rose-bush and a white rose-bush were trained, one 
on each side of the door. A white dog, of a nondescript 
race, was asleep on the step, and a black kitten was 
curled up snugly on his back. These proverbial “ nat- 
ural enemies” had never been anything but loving 
friends. 

At the approach of David the dog sprang up, wide 
awake, overturning the kitten, who put up her back, 
gaped, and stretched herself, while Jack ran forward 
and leaped upon his master, who did not order him 
“ down, sir !” but patted his head, and returned caress 
for caress. 

The red door opened then, and a smiling old woman 
appeared — Mrs. Lindsay, David’s grandmother. 

She was a small, plump, fair-faced, blue-eyed dame, 
with the white hair of sixty years parted plainly over 
her forehead, and banded back under a clean linen cap. 
She wore a striped blue and white cotton gown, of her 
own spinning and weaving, and a white handkerchief 
folded over her bosom, and a white apron tied before ^ 
her gown. 


46 


Gloria, 


She came forward, smiling pleasantly as she held out 
her hand to the child, while she spoke to David. 

Is this the little lady you have brought to visit me ? 
I am very pleased to see thee, my dear.” 

“ Oh, thank you, ma’am ! It was so nice of you to let 
me come ! And I like David Lindsay. He is all the 
playmate I have got But he’s splendid !” said the 
child, with enthusiasm. 

The old woman smiled on her, patted the tiny hand 
she held in her own, and then led her into the house. 

It was a good sized room, with clean, white-washed 
walls, the one window shaded with a home-made blind 
of flowered wall-paper ; the floor of wide planks, per- 
fectly bare, yet scrubbed to a creamy whiteness ; in one 
corner a neat bed, with a patchwork quilt and snowy 
pillows ; in another corner a loom, with a piece of cloth 
in process of weaving ; in a third, a large spinning- 
wheel ; in the fourth, a corner cupboard, with glass 
doors in the upper part, through which might be seen 
the clean, coarse, blue-edged crockery ware, and the 
bright pewter dishes of the little menage. 

In the middle of the floor stood a table covered with a 
coarse but snow-white cloth, and adorned with blue- 
edge cups and saucers and plates, while oh the clean, 
red ochre-painted hearth stood a tea-pot and several 
covered plates and dishes, before the clear Are in the 
small open fire-place. 

‘‘ Come, lass, let me take off ’ee coat,” said the kind 
little woman, beginning to unbutton and untie until she 
had relieved the child of hat and sack. 

“ Now, sit ’ee down, lass, while I put dinner on the 
table,” she continued, depositing her small visitor on a 
low chip-bottomed chair, near the window-sill, on which 


The Girl's Mission to the Boy. 


47 


stood a box of mignonette, that filled the homely room 
with fragrance. 

“ ’Ee’s late, Dave. I thought ’ee’d be here wi’ the lass 
an hour ago, and had all ready for ’ee,” said the old 
woman, as she began to place dinner on the table. 

“We were reading of a book what the little lady loaned 
me,” replied the boy, as he carefully placed the two 
volumes on each side the Bible, which stood upon a 
chest of drawers at the end of the room, between the 
bed and the corner cupboard. 

“ It was my fault. I stopped David Lindsay to show 
him the books,” put in the child. 

“ It wasn’t ’ee fault, then. It was ’ee goodness, little 
lass. And it’s na great matter. The dinner is no sich 
that it can be spoiled,” said Dame Lindsay, as she placed 
the last dish on the table, and then led her small guest 
to a SQat. 

Poor as these cotters were in all things else, they were 
not poor in regard to food. 

The sea supplied them with fish for immediate use, 
and for salting away against winter ; the two pigs that 
they bought and raised at a trifling cost every year, 
provided them with pork and bacon ; the small poultry- 
yard with fowls and eggs ; the patch of garden with 
vegetables and fruit ; the little Alderney cow with milk 
and butter. 

The few other provisions they needed were easily pro- 
curable at the nearest country store on the main, in 
exchange for the excellent cotton hose and mittens knit 
by the industrious and skillful hands of the old dame. 

Other trifling expenses of the little household were 
met by the money earned by David on the fishing land- 
ing of the promontory. 


48 


Gloria, 


The dainty midday meal set before the little lady 
guest, was not at all an every-day affair, but was got up 
expressly for her. It was very attractive — nice fragrant 
tea, with rich cream and white sugar ; nice light, home- 
made bread, with sweet, fresh butter ; fried blue-fish^ 
just out of the sea ; poached eggs on toast ; boiled spring 
chicken ; mashed potatoes, green peas, lettuce, radishes, 
and, finally, cherry pie, strawberries and cream, and a 
plenty of new milk. 

Little Glo’ ate — well, like a healthy child, with an 
excellent appetite, and no one near to curb it. 

“ It is the nicest dinner I ever had in all the days of my 
life, and — I have been at big dinner parties, too, before 
I came to the promontory !” she declared with equal 
frankness and emphasis, as she arose from the table. 

At least, it was the most enjoyable. 

The old dame smiled on her, and David felt so pleased 
and proud ! 

Ay ! the Earl of Leicester entertaining Queen Eliza- 
beth at Kenilworth Castle could not have felt more 
elevated in spirit by her majesty’s august approbatidn 
than was the fisher-boy by the pleasure of his little lady 
guest. 

Mayhap 'ee’ll come again to see us, little lady,” said 
the old dame. 

Oh, indeed, indeed, indeed I will ! Just as often as 
you’ll please to let me come ! Oh, it is so nice here ! 
I’ll be sure to come just as often as ever you will let me 
come !” exclaimed the child, heartily. 

“ That will be as often as ’ee likes,” said the old dame. 

Then, assisted by David, she hastily cleared away 
the table, taking the dishes into the ^‘lean-to ” behind 


The GirTs Mission to the Boy. 


49 


the cottage, there to remain until she could wash them 
up after the departure of the visitor. 

Then she set herself to entertain the little lady. 

She showed her all the few curiosities of the cottage 
— some strange South Sea shells that had been brought 
home by a sailor ancestor ages before, and which now 
decorated the low wooden chimney shelf ; then the 
rusty old gun that had been carried by her own grand- 
father in the Revolutionary War ; then some stuffed 
birds, some skeletons of strange fish, and some odd- 
looking pebbles picked up from the beach. 

Next she exhibited some of the small treasures of her 
chest of drawers — a curious patch-work quilt that had 
won the prize in a certain agricultural and industrial 
fair held at St. Inigoes many years before. 

And did you sew all these little pieces of colored 
calico and white cotton together with your fingers V* 
inquired the child, with interest. 

Yes, dearie, I did.” 

“ Oh, how curious and how pretty ! How I would 
like to do that ! We have got ever and ever so many 
calico and cotton pieces in the scrap-bags at home ! If 
I bring some over here, when I come again, will you 
show me how to cut the pieces into leaves, and flowers, 
and things, and sew them together like this ?” 

“ Yes, little lass, I will teach ’ee with good will ; for I 
do think it a merit to save up the scraps and turn them 
to good account, though they do tell me that now-a-days 
quilts are made by masonryy and sell cheaper than we 
could make ’em by hand. ’Ee sees, dearie, I use to 
make ’em to sell ; but now I can’t get anybody to give 
me enough to pay for my work on ’em. . So now I knit 
socfe and. mittens.” .. 


50 


Gloria, 


“ They make them by machinery, too,” said the child. 

“ Yes, and I shouldn’t wonder and they didn’t come 
to hatch chickens by masonry some of these days ! 
Well a-day ! No masonry stockings can eekill my 
knitted stockings, and that the store-keeper knows, and 
alius takes ’em from me and pays me well in tea, and 
sugar, and whatever I may want. As to the quilt-piec- 
ing, lass. I’ll teach ’ee with good will. ’Ee’s a plenty of 
leisure. I’ll warrant, and ee’s well spend it that way in 
saving the scraps and turning ’em to account as in 
another,” concluded the canny old dame, as she folded 
her prize quilt, replaced it, and closed the drawer. 

Oh, I think it is such pretty and curious work, and 
it is so-reconomical !” said the little child- woman. I 
shall be so glad to learn !” 

“ She likes to learn everything she sees going on,” 
added David, who, with his hands in his pockets, stood 
a smiling spectator of the scene. 

“That’s right. Lam all ’ee can, little lass. Now 
come wi’ me, and I’ll show ’ee the young ducks that 
were hatched yesterday.” 

“ Oh !” cried the child, jumping up in glee. “ I never 
saw young ducks in all my life ! What a nice plac^ 
this is !” 

“ What ! Don’t they show ’ee the young things up 
by, at the house ?” inquired the dame. 

“ No, ma’am ; they never thought of it, I reckon ; no 
more did I,” answered the child, as she followed her 
conductress out into the poultry-yard. 

She saw the young ducklings that were just out ; 
then she saw the little chickens that were a week old, 
and seemed to know as much about life as she herself 
did. Then she was taken through the garden, and she 


The Gzr/’s Mission to the Boy, 


51 


saw the strawberry bed and the one cherry tree, with 
its bright red fruit hiding in its green leaves, and the 
crooked apple tree that bore the green sweetings which 
would soon be ripe, and the currant bushes along the 
walk, with the small beds of peas and cabbage and com 
between them, and then the bee hive and the two white 
pigs, and Winny, the little black and white cow, in her 
shed. 

Then they went in. 

“ Oh ! what a nice place this is ! The nicest place I 
ever saw !” said the child. 

“ 'Ee must come often to see it, if 'ee likes it so well,” 
said the dame, who felt flattered by the child’s sincere 
admiration ; ’ee must come often, but now it is getting 
late i’ the afternoon, and I must send ’ee home to ’ee 
friends, lest harm come to ’ee through this visit.” 

David, who had kept close to the pair all the day, now 
left them to get the boat ready. 

The old dame carefully put on the child’s hat and 
sack, and then threw a shawl over her own head, and 
led the little one down to the water’s edge, where David 
stood in the boat waiting. 

The child threw her arms around the old woman’s 
neck, and kissed her heartily, many times, thanking her 
warmly for the “ happy, happy day ” she had had. 

The dame responded cordially. 

David then handed the little girl into the boat, 
unmoored, and rowed rapidly for the promontory land- 
ing, which they reached in a few minutes. 

The sun was just setting. 

“ Oh, David Lindsay, I have had such a splendid time ! 
Oh ! I am so glad I found you !” exclaimed little Glo’, 
as he helped her out of the boat. 


52 


Gloria. 


“ Oh, so am I ! Ever so glad ! And I think we ought 
to thank the Lord !” he added, solemnly. 

“ Oh ! I will, when I say my prayers to-night. Are 
you going to study your books this evening, David 
Lindsay ?” 

“ Yes, indeed. What are you going to do ?” 

Oh, I — I think I will look out some more books for 
you, and then I will hunt out some pretty bright pieces 
of calico from the scrap-bag, to learn to make patch- 
work quilts, and have them ready against the next time 
I go to see your grandmother.” 

“ When will you come again ? To-morrow ?” anx- 
iously inquired the boy, as he leaned on his oar. 

“ Oh, no, not to-morrow ; not to see your grand- 
mother, to put her to so much trouble, you know ; but 
I will come down here to the landing to seey^??/, David 
Lindsay.” 

“ Oh, please do.” 

“ Well, good-bye, David Lindsay.” 

“ Good-bye.” 

“ God bless you, David Lindsay !” 

“ And you, too.” 

“ I won't forget to thank Him when I say my prayers 
to-night.” 

“No more will I.” 

“Well, good-bye again, David Lindsay.” 

“ Good-bye.” He did not want to call her Miss de la 
Vera, much less Miss Gloria ; he could not call her little 
Glo’. He felt, without in the least understanding his 
feelings, that the first style would be too cold and stiff, 
and the last perhaps too familiar, so he called her “ you,” 
putting all respect in his low and modulated tone. 


The GirTs Mission to the Boy. 


53 


There was much of nature’s gentleman in this poor lit- 
tle lad in the ragged straw hat. 

He waited, hat in hand, until she had turned and 
tripped lightly over the broken sea wall and passed out 
of sight. 

Then he covered his head, sat down in his boat, took 
the oar and reluctantly shoved off from the shore, while 
she ran home, singing and dancing as she went. 

She ran into the house and went directly to seek 
Sophia. 

Have they been worried about me, Thia ?” she 
inquired. 

No, honey ; dey’s been too much took up wid 
'spoundin’ an’ 'splainin' 'bout yes’day’s fuss to fink ’bout 
you. Leastways, mist’ess was ; dough mars ter did 'quire 
arter you when dey sat down to dinner an’ you wa’n’t 
dere. Says he : 

“ ‘ Whey’s de chile T 

Says she : 

** * Oh, never mind de chile ; she's running round’ de 
place somew’ere, an’ ’Phia can give her her dinner when 
she comes in. Tell me what you meant by — ’ somefin' 
or Oder, Lord knows what, honey ; but at it dey went, 
’spoundin’ and ’splainin'. But where is you been all de 
live-long day, anyhow, little Glo’ ?” demanded the 
woman. 

“ Oh, ’Phia ! I have had such a happy, happy day !” 
replied the child. 

And then she told the cook all about her visit, 
adding : 

‘‘And granny Lindsay begged me to come ever so 
often !” 

“Yes, honey; mighty good ob de ole woman. I 


54 


Gloria, 


knows her, honey, and has buyed mittens ob her — 
woolen mittens, which she knitted, honey. But you 
mustn’t go too often, honey. One fing, you mustn’t be 
to'o intimit wid people ob dat low order ob deciety. Not 
as I am sayin’ butdey may be jes as good as we is, in de 
sight ob de Lord, if dey ’haves deirselves ; but still, 
’ciety is to be despected. An’ another fing, honey, is, 
dey can’t deford it ; dey can’t, indeed ; dey can’t deford 
to ’tain a little lady on fry chickens an’ sich, 
often.” 

Now the first clause of this speech, concerning caste, 
slipped through the child’s ears without making the 
slightest impression, but the second clause, about the 
expense of her visit to the fisherman’s cottage, fixed her 
attention. 

Oh, yes, I thought of that ; so I told David Lindsay 
I could not go to-morrow. ’Phia, you are right,” she 
said, as she ran up stairs. She did not go to the sitting- 
room to interrupt the tHe-a-iete of her aunt and uncle, 
but up to the attic to hunt for bright pieces in the scrap- 
bag, singing and dancing as she went. 

When she met her relatives at tea that night they did 
not even think of asking her where she had been. They 
seemed to take it for granted that she had come in soon 
after dinner, and had been properly attended by ’Phia. 

So the child’s holiday escaped their notice. 

The next morning, Gloria, true to her promise, 
went down to the landing, where she found David sitting 
in the old boat, mending nets. 

His face broke into a smile as he took off his hat and 
stood up to receive her. 

Good -morning, David Lindsay. Did you study your 
book last night ?” she inquired, with childish frankness. 


55 


The GirTs Mission to the Boy, 


“ Oh, yes, indeed ! And I have brought the geography 
here with me to take a glimpse of it now and then ; 
but it is such a temptation to slight my work, that I 
shall have to leave it home after this,” replied the lad, 
still standing, hat in hand. 

“ Oh, no, don’t you do that, David Lindsay ! Please 
don’t ! See now, sit down and take up your netting 
and go on with it, and I will sit by and read the lessons 
out, and ask the questions at the bottom of the page, so 
you can tell if you know them.” 

“ Oh, yes, I shall like that ; for then I can do my work 
and learn my lesson at the same time. How good you 
are to me. What makes you so good to me ?” 

“Why,” she said, opening her blue eyes wide and 
looking at him with surprise, “ don’t you know ? You 
are my playmate^ and we are going to play school T 

“ Oh, yes.” 

“ Now give me the book, David Lindsay, and sit down 
and go on with your netting. Now, how far had you 
got?” she inquired, when they were seated opposite 
each other in the old stranded boat. 

“ Up to ^ What is a cape ?” 

“ Oh, yes, I can find the place. Now pay attention, 
David Lindsay,” she said, as she took up the book, 
opened it, assumed a grave, school-ma'am air, and 
asked : 

“ ‘ What is a cape ?’ ” 

“ ^ A cape is a point of land pretending into the sea,’ ” 
answered the pupil. 

“ * Px-tending into the sea,’ David Lindsay,’ ” corrected 
the little teacher. 

“ * EX-tending into the sea,’ ” emphatically amended 
the pupil. 


5 ^ 


Gloria. 


“ That is right. Now, then, ‘ What is a promon- 
tory ?’ 

“ ‘ A promontory is a high point of land, pre — ” 

No !” 

“ EX— 

Yes.’* 

“ EX- tending into the sea 1” 

“ That is right, David Lindsay. You will soon learn 
geography.” 

She went on with the lesson, slowly drilling it into 
the head of the boy, who, with his divided attention, 
was a fair illustration of the pursuit of knowledge 
under difficulties.” 

But before his little teacher left him that day, he had 
managed to master the principal divisions of land and 
water, and better than all, he had been inspired with 
the love and desire of knowledge. 

This was the little lady’s mission to the fisher-lad, 
whom, a few years later, in the desperation of her 
unparalleled extremity, she was to ask to be her hus- 
band. 




CHAPTER IV. 

LITTLE GLO’S JOY AND WOE. 

She grew a flower of mind and eye. 

Wordsworth, 

We have lingered a little over these first days *of 
their childish friendship, because they were types of so 
many days that followed, all through the budding 
spring, the blooming summer, and the fruitful autumn. 

The little girl was allowed to do very much as she 
pleased by her studious uncle and invalid aunt, as it was 
scarcely possible that she would “ run into any danger, 
or fall into any sin,” on so isolated a place as the prom- 
tory, where there was neither evil companions or wild 
beasts to deprave or destroy her. 

On the main she might have been more closely looked 
after ; but here she was so safe that not a thought was 
given to her safety. 

So every day, when it did not rain, little Gloria went 
down to the landing to see her playmate and read to 
him while he mended old nets and seines, or made new 
ones. 

At first she was only “ playing school," but later on 
she understood her work and grew interested in the 


58 


Gloria, 


progress of her pupil ; and thus her play rose into “ a 
labor of love.” 

Together they went through the First Book in Geog- 
raphy, and the First Book in History, and the Primary 
Grammar. 

And in this way the child not only advanced her 
pupil -playmate, but refreshed her own memory in those 
studies, which had been too much neglected since her 
arrival at the promontory, 

A pure, sweet, and faithful affection grew up between 
the two children, such as we have sometimes seen 
between two little girls or two little boys ; only because 
neither Gloria nor David had any other playmate to 
divide their attention, their innocent affection was all 
the stronger, deeper, and more devoted in its exclusive- 
ness. 

Very often, too, the fisher-boy brought an invitation 
from his grandmother to the little lady to spend a day 
on the sand-hill which the old dame called her 
home. It was always accepted, and always Gloria had 
“ a happy, happy day.” 

She learned of the old cottager to net, to knit, to sew, 
to piece patchwork quilts out of scraps of bright calico 
and white linen, and to plait door-mats out of strips 
of brilliant cloth or flannel — arts not likely to be of 
much use to the West Indian heiress — but she liked to 
learn them, notwithstanding. 

“ Wouldn’t I make a right good little cottage girl 
after all, Granny Lindsay ?” she once asked her old 
friend, in her childish love of approbation. 

** 'Ee would^ my darling,” said the old dame, tenderly. 
“ ’Ee would make a helpful, loving little lass by the 
cottage fire, or a gracious benign princess in a palace. 


Little Gld s Joy and Woe. 


59 


The world’s breath of sunshine is for ’ee, my flower, 
from the cottage to the palace.” 

I saw some palaces in Havana, but I would rather 
have a cottage just like this ! Oh, I think a cottage is 
so nice and cosy, and so — splendid !” exclaimed the 
little girl, with child-like exaggeration and misapplica- 
tion of words. 

So the once lonely child found much joy in her humble 
friends, giving and receiving good, while spring bloomed 
into summer, and summer ripened into autumn, and 
autumn faded into winter. 

Then came cold, and frost, and change, a bitter 
change for little Gloria. 

Her playmate’s work was now the clearing up of the 
fishing landing, mending boats and oars, and putting 
them away for winter — work that could not go on par- 
allel with his studies, which were now pursued in the 
evenings at his own home. 

Yet Gloria came down late in the afternoon on every 
clear day to hear him say his lessons. He told her that 
this helped him on “ ever so much.” And it pleased 
her. 

One day after sunset, when she had heard her pupil’s 
lesson in a very elementary book of astronomy, and had 
praised his quick apprehension and patient application, 
and had greatly encouraged him, as she always did, 
she took leave and ran home, singing and dancing as 
she went. 

When she reached the house, she found ’Phia at the 
door looking out for her. 

“ Oh, for goodness’ sake, come in, child,” said the 
woman in a frightened tone. 


6o 


Gloria. 


“ What — what is the matter ? What has happened ?” 
cried Gloria, catching terror from the other. 

“ I dunno. Somefin’ awful ! Mistress has been 
goin' on at that rate ! She done put de debbil in 
marster now, sure ! Mind, I tell you, honey, dere’ll 
be murder done here some ob dese days ! Mark my words /'* 

With a slight scream the terrified child fled from 
this prophetess of evil toward the sitting-room, where 
she heard the sound of high words. 

She opened the door and hurried in. 

And this was what she saw : 

Her uncle standing on the corner of the hearth, 
with his elbow on the mantel-piece, his head leaning 
on his hand, whose fingers were clutched into his 
black hair ; his starting black eyes staring down upon 
the floor ; his black brows knitted, his teeth clenched, 
his face pallid with suppressed passion. 

Her aunt, with her white dress and yellow hair in 
wild disorder, as if her own desperate hands had 
rent and torn them, was raging up and down the 
floor like a tigress in her cage, pouring forth all the 
gall and venom of her jealous fury, in words that 
might never be forgiven or forgotten. 

Even the child intuitively perceived this, and feared 
that the man, stung to madness by the woman’s venomed 
tongue, might be driven to some rash act, fatal to them 
both. 

She looked, shuddering, from one to the other. 

It was terrible to see so fragile a creature as Eusebie 
in the power of such a tremendous passion, that seemed 
as if it must shrivel her frame as a cobweb in a flame. 
But it was more terrible to see in Marcel’s whole aspect 
the chained devil that might break loose in destroying 


Little Gld s Joy and Woe. 


6i 


frenzy at any moment. Full of fear and horror, the 
child crept trembling to the man’s side, put her alms 
around his waist, which she could just reach, looked up 
piteously in his face and whispered, in her coaxing tone ; 

“ Uncle, uncle, uncle.” 

“ My little angel,” he murmured in reply, as hi's stem 
dark face softened and brightened. 

“Come away from that man this instant, Gloria,” 
cried Eusebie, stopping in her wild walk and stamping 
with fury. “ Come away from him, I command you ! 
He is not your uncle ? You shall not call him uncle ! 
He is a traitor and a villain ! Come away, I say !” 

The child did not obey ; she could not move ; she 
was half paralyzed by fear and horror, and more likely 
to sink than to stand. 

The man put his arm around her, and drew her closer 
to him. 

The woman stamped with fury. 

“ Let my niece go, you caitiff !” she screamed. 

He did not reply to this, but lifted his head and 
glared at her, while his face darkened and hardened. 

The terrified child — terrified for others, not for her- 
self — pressed closely to him, as if, in extremity, she 
would hold him back by her own baby strength, and 
moaned, coaxingly : 

“ Uncle, uncle, uncle deard 

Again his face changed ; he stooped towards her and 
she laid her cheek against his lips. 

“ Come away from that man, or I will tear you from 
him ! He is not your uncle ! He is no kin to you ! He 
is nothing to you ! No ! I thank Heaven that not one 
drop of his false, black blood runs in the veins of any 
one belonging to me ! I have not even a child ! Ha ! 


62 


Gloria. 


ha ! I know the reason ? Fiends are not permitted to be 
fathers /” hissed the woman, with all the hate and scorn 
that Satan could cast into her face and voice. 

Here the man’s eyes gl'ared so fiercely, while his brow 
grew so black, that the child clasped him in a frantic 
clutch, moaning, inarticulately, some words of piteous 
deprecation to restrain him. 

“ Leave that wretch this instant, I command you ! 
His contact is infamy ! Am I not to be obeyed ? Oh, 
then I will snatch you from him !” screamed the woman 
in blind fnry, as she sprang towards them ; but he was 
too quick for her. 

He lifted the half-fainting child in his arms and bore 
her swiftly out of the room. 

“ Oh, uncle, she is crazy ! She does not 'k.no'w what 
says ! Don't mind her ! Don't go back in the room,’* 
coaxed the child, as she put up her hand and stroked 
and patted his cheek. Uncle, dear, don't go back in the 
room ! Come with me to Granny Lindsay’s cottage. Oh, 
it is so heavenly there.” 

But now the man paid but little attention to what 
she said. He pulled the bell-cord violently. 

^ Phia ran to answer the bell. 

Take this child up to her bed-room, and stay with 
her until she goes to sleep,” he said, placing the little 
girl in the strong arms of the colored woman. 

“ Oh, uncle, don't go back to that room ! Don't^ or 
if you do, take me with you !” pleaded the child, caressing 
his cheek with her hand. 

Go, my dear, go to bed. Pandemonium is no place 
for babies. Leave me to deal with that demoniac,” he 
answered, grimly, as he turned away. 

Oh, uncle, don't mind her ! She don't know what 


Little Glds Joy and Woe, 


63 


she says !” pleaded the child, stretching out her hands 
imploringly towards him. 

But he had re-entered the room and clapped the door 
to behind him. 

Gloria slid from the woman’s arms, sat down on the 
lowest step of the stairs and burst into tears. 

“ Come to bed, honey. Don’t sit there crying. You 
can’t do no good by dat. You can’t ’vent'de debbil 
from habbin’ his own way dis night,” said ’Phia. 

Oh, I know — I know — I know !” sobbed the child. 

“ Well, den, come along up to bed, and I’ll stay ’long 
ob you for company.” 

“Oh, I can’t — I can’t — I can’t — I’m so ’fraid. Let me 
sit here and wait — ” 

“Wait for what !” 

“ Oh, till uncle comes out, or one of them does. Oh, I 
couldn’t go to bed ! I couldn’t go to sleep and leave 
them so ! Hush r suddenly exclaimed the child, break- 
ing off in her talk, and bending forward her head and 
straining her sense in fearful attention, as she heard 
her uncle’s voice in low, tense, bitter tones, and then 
her aunt’s hissing tongue in reply. 

The child clasped her hands in a piteous, helpless 
agony of prayer. 

“ Come, come, honey, come up to bed, and I will sit 
by you and tell you pretty stories about foxes and hares, 
and dwarfs and giants, and little pigs and things, like 
I used to do,” said ’Phia. 

“ Hush r exclaimed the child, starting forward with 
staring eyes, as the voices in the closed room sunk 
lower and became more bitter, intense and hissing. 

“ Come, come, honey, you must come to bed. 'Taint 


64 


Gloria, 


right to be listening nohow !” expostulated Sophia in 
virtuous indignation. 

“ Oh ! I know it is not ! I know it is not ! And I 
can’t hear a word they say. I only want to know — want 
to know — Oh ! I’m so afraid ! I’m so afraid, ’Phia !” 
gasped the child shuddering from head to foot. 

'Fraid ’o what ?” 

“Oh! ’fraid of something happening!” panted the 
little girl. 

“ You can’t help of what happens, so what’s the use o’ 
bein’ afeard T 

At that moment the voices in the closed room arose, 
both speaking together in violent, clashing frenzy. 

“ Oh, ’Phia ! Let’s go in ! Let’s go in and stand 
between them !” pleaded the child, springing up. 

“ Who ? — me ? No, I thank you, honey ! I’m spunky 
enough, but I ain’t gwine to part a wolf from a wild- 
cat, dere !” 

“ Then I will ! I will !” cried the brave child, run- 
ning and flinging herself against the closed door ; but 
it was locked fast, and resisted all her efforts, while the 
angry voices within clashed together in rage. 

Suddenly one voice arose above the other, with the 
roar of an infuriated wild beast. It was her uncle’s 
voice. It cried : 

“ DIE, then ! and end it all !” 

There was a heavy fall and groan. 

With a shriek of horror Gloria arose and fled to the 
negro woman and buried her face in her bosom. 

The next instant the door wasf^uddenly unlocked and 
thrown open, and Marcellus de Crespigney— his face hag- 
gard, his eyes starting, his hair bristling— ran out, tore 


Little Gld s Joy and Woe. 


65 


open the hall door and rushed from the house out into 
the winter night. 

“ I must go see what’s happened,” hastily muttered 
the black woman, in a voice full of awe, as she put the 
child off her knee and went toward the sitting-room. 

Gloria, tottering, rnoaning, sobbing piteously, followed. 

The long room was silent and almost dark, for the 
candles had not been called for, and there was no light 
except from the smouldering logs of the fire in the open 
chimney. 

Fallen on a rug before this fire, lay a white form. 

Sophia stooped to look at it, and instantly started up 
in horror, crying out : 

“ Lord have mercy upon us ! He has killed her ! 
Marster has murdered mist’ess !” 

He had ! 

There in a little pool of her own blood, lay the small, 
white face of Eusebie, with its eyes wide open and glazed. 

She was quite dead. 


CHAPTER V. 

REMORSE. 

And well we know your tenderness of heart 
And gentle, deep, compassionate remorse. 

Shakespeare. 

Filled with horror, that subdued all outward show of 
emotion, the old black woman lifted the light form of' 
her mistress and bore it across the room to the lounge. 


66 


Gloria. 


Overcome with grief and terror, the child followed 
her, shaking as with a hard ague fit. 

Thia laid the fast-stiffening body down on the couch 
and straightened the limbs, and drew the white dress 
down to the small, rigid feet. 

Little Gloria stood by, clasping the woman’s skirts, 
and crying and sobbing as if her heart would burst. 

When ’Phia had decently composed the small body, 
she went to the bell and rang it sharply, then she turned 
the key of the door and came back to her post. 

She gazed for a moment on the poor, dead face, and 
then tenderly closed the eyes, keeping her fingers and 
thumb lightly pressed on the white lids. 

Some one came running swiftly along the passage 
outside, tried the lock, and then rapped. 

’Phia went and unlocked the door, holding it a few 
inches apart, to prevent the entrance of the new-comer. 

There were but three servants in that reduced estab- 
lishment, — ’Phia, her husband Laban, and her daughter 
Lamia, 

It was the latter who had come to answer the bell. 

What does yer want, mammy ?” inquired the girl, 
seeing that her mother barred her farther progress. 

“ You tell your daddy to run here right off. No 
nonsense, now ; not to ’lay a minute, but to run here 
right off ! Yer hear me, don’t yer ?” 

‘‘ Yes, mammy ; but daddy done gone ’way in de boat 
to Sinnigger’s.” 

“ Whey ?” sharply demanded the woman. 

“To Sinnigger’s, mammy.” 

“ What he done gone dere for, when he wanted so bad 
here ?” 

“ Marster done sent him dere arter de doctor. Marster 


Remorse. 


67 


come a rabin’ out to de quarter, just now, like he gone 
rip stabin’ mad, an* say how mist ’ess wer’ took berry ill, 
an’ he hauled off daddy down to de landin’ to start him 
off to Sinnigger’s arter de doctor. Is mist’ess dat bad, 
sure ’nough ?” 

“ Hum ! Sent arter de doctor, eh ? No use send arter 
de doctor now. Set a house a fire, an’ den run for a 
gourd o’ water to put it out ! Hum ! Dat a blind !” 
muttered ’Phia. 

“ Is mist’ess so berry bad ?” inquired the girl. 

“ So yer daddy’s gone to Sinnigger’s. Whey’s yer 
marster ?” 

“ Marster done gone down to de boat landin’ to hurry 
daddy off, I tolled you before, mammy. But, say, is 
mist’ess bad as all dat comes to ?” inquired the girl for 
the third time. 

It ain’t none o’your business ! You go right straight 
down de kitchen and put on a kettle ob water to heat,” 
replied the woman, closing the door on her daughter. 

“ Sent for de doctor ! Hum. Dat piece ob ’ception 
ain’t a gwine to do no good. Lord, Lord, did I ebber 
expect to lib to see dis awful day ? Dough I hab offen 
an’ offen prophesied as how murder would be done in 
dis forsak, unlawful house, did I ebber expect as it 
would come to pass ? He’s done it, an’ he’ll sure to be 
hung, an’ den what is to come ob de place ? O-o-m-me,” 
groaned the woman, as she returned to her post of 
duty. 

At these dreadful words, the voice of the child, that 
had sunk into low sobs, now arose in wails of anguish. 

The next moment the door was thrown open and 
Marcellus de Crespigney hurried into the room, haggard, 
ghastly, with distended eyeballs and disheveled hair. 


68 


Gloria. 


After rapidly glancing around the room, his eyes fell 
upon the form lying on the lounge, and he hurried up 
to it, breathing hard, as he put the questions : 

“ How is she ? How is she ? Better T 

The appalled woman silently moved aside and the 
child crouched down upon the floor and made room for 
him. 

He stooped anxiously over the rigid form, looked 
deeply into the marble face and uttered a cry which 
those that heard never forgot in all their after life. 

Then dashing his hand violently against his forehead, 
he flung himself down by the couch, and dropped his 
head upon the cold breast of his wife, wailing forth : 

“ Dead ! Dead ! Dead ! And I have killed her ! I, 
a murderer, most accursed !” 

He was totally unconscious of the sobbing child at 
his feet, or the frowning woman who stood with folded 
arms, like a black Nemesis, at his back. He had eyes 
for neither — for nothing but the lifeless form before 
him. 

Gazing on her, pressing his lips to her cold brow, 
again and again, he broke into the most violent lamen- 
tations, the most awful self-accusations. 

Then hiding his head in the folds of her raiment, he 
groaned aloud and seemed to swoon into silence. 

Again, with an accession of frenzy, he started up and 
began striding to and fro, from end to end of the long 
room, uttering the most agonized self-reproaches, and 
calling down the most horrible maledictions upon his 
own head. 

This terrible scehe went on until at last the weeping 
child, her heart half broken with grief for her who was 
beyond suffering, and for him who still suffered, arose 


Remorse, 


69 


from her crouching position and dried her tears and 
tried to still her sobs, and went to the maddened man, 
as he raged up and down the floor, invoking impreca- 
tions on his own head. 

She came behind him, pleading in her pitiful tones : 

Oh, uncle, do not curse yourself ! Pray ! The Lord 
is merciful !” And she put her little hand out to touch 
his. 

Then he whirled around upon her like a furious wind, 
his eyes flashing lightnings of frenzy, his voice thunder- 
ing : 

“ Avaunt ! Begone ! Let no innocent thing come 
near me ?” 

The child turned and fled and buried her face in the 
lap of Sophia, who was now seated by the dead body of 
her mistress. 

“ Let me take you to bed, little Glo’,*’ whispered the 
woman. 

“ No — no — ” sobbed the aggrieved and terrified child. 
‘‘ No — no. I want to stay near him ! I — I want to stay 
near him !’ 

Three dreadful hours passed in this way, with little 
change. 

Sophia sat near the head of the lounge, keeping con- 
stant watch over the corpse. 

Little Gloria crouched on the floor at her feet, with 
her head hidden in the old woman’s lap. 

Marcellus de Crespigney raged up and down the floor, 
breathing maledictions upon himself, or he dropped down 
before the dead body of his wife, uttering awful groans 
or lapsing into more awful silence. 

•An hour after midnight there came a sound of foot- 
steps, crunching through the frozen snow, and followed 


70 


Gloria, 


by an alarm on the iron knocker at the front door, which 
announced the arrival of Dr. Front, the physician of St. 
Inigoes. 

De Crespigney, almost exhausted by the long con- 
tinued violence of his emotions, was now calm with the 
calmness of prostration and despair. 

Nothing serious the matter, I hope said the cor- 
dial voice of the doctor, as he entered the room, ushered 
by Laban, and met by Colonel de Crespigney, who 
advanced to receive him. 

The physician of St. Inigoes was a short, stout, round- 
bodied little old man, with a bald head, a smooth face, 
cheery voice and manner. He was always dressed in 
speckless black from head to foot : 

“ Nothing serious, I hope ? Only one of madame’s 
usual nervous attacks, eh ?” he cheerfully demanded, as 
he shook hands with the master of the house. 

“ It is her last attack, sir. She is dead,” answered De 
Crespigney, in steady tones. 

“ Dead ? Lord bless my soul, I am — I — dead, do you 
say ?” exclaimed the doctor, in surprise and confusion. 

“Yes, sir, she is gone. Come and see.” 

“ Lord bless my soul, I am very much shocked !” 
exclaimed the good little man, as he followed the 
bereaved husband to the lounge on which the body, of 
the ill-fated wife lay. 

Old Thia lifted the white handkerchief that covered 
the white face, and then withdrew to give way to her 
master and the doctor, leading the trembling child 
away with her. 

“ How did this happen ?” solemnly inquired the 
doctor, as he gazed down on the waxen face, with the 
stream of scarlet blood curdled from the corner of the 


Remorse, 


71 


mouth down upon the chin and throat, where it lay in a 
thick cake. 

“ Through me. I killed her,” answered De Crespigney, 
in the same dread monotone in which all his answers to 
the doctor’s questions had been made. 

Dr. Prout turned and gazed at him in amazement for 
a moment, and then said gravely and kindly : 

“ My dear friend, this shock has been too much for 
you. Compose yourself. This unhappy lady has had a 
fatal hemorrhage of the lungs, such as I feared for a 
long time past ; such as I warned you might be the 
result of any unusual excitement.” 

“ Just so, you warned me, yet I killed her.” 

The doctor looked at him in a great trouble, then 
replaced the handkerchief over the quiet face of the 
dead, and taking his arm led him to a distant sofa, placed 
him on it, took the seat beside him, and said : 

“ De Crespigney, you must not say such false things 
about yourself. Think what the effect upon other minds 
may be.” 

** They are not false ; they are true. Listen to me. 
Dr. Prout. You know you warned me that excitement 
might prove fatal to my unhappy wife.” 

“ Yes.” 

“You know how prone she was to excitement. You 
knew her delicate health and her extreme nervous irri- 
tability ?” 

“ I knew the weakness of her lungs and the violence 
of her temper. I knew all that, Colonel de Crespigney, 
before you ever saw her face.” 

“ Let that pass,” said Marcel, waving his hand impa- 
tiently. You warned me against the danger of excite- 
ment for her. I was not man enough to heed your 


72 


Gloria. 


warning in her behalf. I have been frenzied to-night, 
Dr. Front. But attend ! This evening I irritated her, 
excited, taunted, maddened, murderedlaev !” 

“ Oh, my dear Colonel. Oh, tut, tut, tut !” 

But hear me ! I must tell some one. Oh, this neces- 
sity of confession ! — this afternoon a dispute arose 
between us, indeed I know not how — I should have 
calmed, soothed, conciliated her, knowing how danger- 
ous was excitement to that poor, fragile being ! But I 
did not. When she accused me, I recriminated ; when 
she reproached me, I retorted. ‘ One word brought on 
another,’ as the people say. She grew frantic and knew 
not what she said, I do verily believe. Yet her words 
stung me to frenzy, and, forgetting my manhood, I — 
I—” 

Here Marcel de Crespigney’s voice broke, and he 
covered his brow with his hand and dropped his head 
upon his breast with a look of unutterable shame. 

“ You never could have raised your hand against your 
wife, De Crespigney ?” exclaimed the doctor, in a harsh 
voice, and shrinking away from his companion. 

Up went the fine head, and wide open with astonish- 
ment at such a question the splendid eyes, as Marcel 
replied : 

“Who — II I raise my hand against that poor little, 
fragile being ? I raise my hand against any woman ? 
I may be a devil. Dr. Front, but I am not — a — what 
would you call a man who would strike a woman any 
way ? I am sure I don’t know.” 

“ Fardon me the base thought, De Crespigney. It 
was but a passing thought. Scarcely that indeed. But 
what do you mean, then, by your self- accusations, my 
poor friend ?” 


Re7no7'se, 


73 


“ I killed her all the same. If I did not strike with 
my hand, I struck with the poisoned arrow of the 
tongue. Is any serpent’s sting so venomous as the 
tongue ? Her tongue had stung me to frenzy. She 
accused me, poor, wrong-headed child that she was, she 
accused me of marrying her for money, for this misera- 
ble, sterile promontory, with its ruinous house and 
worthless land. I retorted by telling her 1 married her 
for pity. Yes !” cried Marcel, suddenly starting up, 
and striding to and fro with rising excitement, yes, 
villain ! caitiff ! cur that I was, I told my wife — I told 
that delicate and sensitive creature that I had married 
her only for pity ! And worse, far worse than that, I 
saw her pale face grow scarlet at my cruel, shameful 
words, then, white as death, as *she sank upon a chair 
and placed her hand upon her chest. I did not care. 
The devil had possession of me. 

“ ‘You will kill me,” she gasped. 

“ ‘ Die, then, and end it all !’ I answered, brutally, for 
I half suspected she was acting all this illness. But 
the next instant she fell heavily forward, with the blood 
welling from her throat.” 

“ Gracious Heaven !” murmured the doctor in a low 
tone. 

“ I remembered what you had warned me to do in 
case of such an emergency. I went and laid her down 
on the rugs quietly, and then ran out and dispatched a 
servant for you. In ten minutes I was back again at 
her side, but— she was gone.” 

“ I came the very moment that I was summoned, but 
the way was long,” said the doctor. 

“ You could have done no good, as it turned out, even 
if you had been in the house. The fault was mine. I 


74 


Gloria. 


killed her! I killed the poor little fragile woman, 
whose only fault was to love me too well, too jealously, 
too exactingly, too insanely !’* exclaimed De Cres- 
pigney, heaping up words as men will do under any 
strong excitement. Yes, I killed my delicate, sensitive 
wife! I killed her with cruel, shameful, unmanly 
words. Oh, accursed villain !” he cried, smiting his 
forehead with a violent blow, as he strode up and down 
the room. 

Dr. Prout went up to him, took his arm and drew it 
within his own, and saying, with the authority of a 
keeper over a madman : 

“ Come, De Crespigney, you must go with me. I am 
going to take you off to bed and give you an opiate. 
You, Laban, there ! Lead the way to your master’s 
chamber.” 

Marcel, whose stormy fits of emotion had reduced 
him to the weakness of infancy, submitted himself to be 
led from the room, preceded by his servant, Laban. 

Then there was left in the apartment of death, with 
the corpse, the old watcher, Sophia, and the child, 
Gloria, who had sobbed herself to sleep with her head 
on the black woman’s lap. 

A few minutes after the doctor had led De Cres- 
pigney away, however. Lamia softly entered the room 
and whispered : 

“ The hot water is ready, mammy.” 

“ Yes. Well, now take this child and carry her up to 
her room, and undress her without waking her, if 
possible, and put her to bed. But if she do wake, you 
stay with her till she goes to sleep again, an’ then you 
come down here an’ help me. You know what’s hap- 
pened of by dis time, don’t you ?” 


Remorse. 


75 


“ Oh, yes ; mist’ess hab broken a blood-vessel, an’ 
deed—*’ 

^‘Yes ! Lord forgive me ! I did fink by de way he 
ran on, as marster had done it hisself ! I thanks my 
Lord it wasn’t him, and dere’ll be no crowner’s quest, 
nor hanging ! Dere, gal, take de poor dear chile and 
carry her to bed. Well, poor mist’ess, I hopes de Lord 
will hab messy on her soul ! Anyways, dere won’t be 
no more quarrellin’ an' fighting’ an’ ’fendin’ an’ provin’ 
an’ ’spoundin’ an’ ’splainin’ in de house to drive a body 
ravin,’ ’stracted mad. Marse ain’t ’dined to quarrel 
much hisself, an’ if he was, he couldn’t quarrel by his- 
self ’dout some one else to holp him,” growled old ’Phia, 
as she lifted the child and laid her, still sleeping, in the 
arms of Lamia. 

The girl took the exhausted child up to her room, 
undressed, and put her into bed without awakening 
her. 

Once, indeed, the poor little creature half waked as 
she was finally laid on her pillow ; but she only sobbed 
and swooned away to sleep. 

Lamia stood by the bed watching her for a few 
minutes, and seeing that she was not likely to wake for 
hours to come, left the chamber and went down stairs 
to join her mammy ” in the room of death. 

Together they washed and dressed the dead, and laid 
it out neatly on the long table to await the undertaker. 
Then ’Phia lighted a couple of wax candles and placed 
one at the head and one at the foot. 

Lastly, the two set the room in perfect order, replen- 
ished the fire, and finally took up their positions, sitting 
one on the right, and the other on the left of the body, 
to watch until daylight. 


Gloria. 


76 


Dr. Front remained all night with his sorrowing 
friend, and then, after an early breakfast the next 
morning, departed to make, at the request of Colonel 
de Crespigney, the necessary arrangements for the 
funeral. 

When Marcel de Crespigney re-entered the room of 
death he found it filled with an atmosphere of repose 
that calmed even his perturbed spirit. He went to the 
table and turned down the white linen cover, and saw 
the face of the dead soothed into a peaceful beauty such 
as it had never known in life. He gazed on it for some 
minutes, and then stooped and pressed his lips to the 
cold, quiet brow with more tenderness than he had ever 
kissed the living woman. Then he reverently covered 
the face again, and stole silently from the room. 

Little Gloria slept the deep sleep of mental and 
physical prostration. She did not wake until noon. 
Then she awoke to memory, and to an agony of grief 
that refused to be comforted. 

“ And not a lady about de house to look arter de poor 
chile ! Not oben a white ’oman anywhere in reach. 
An’ me an’ Lamia dat oberloaded with work, along ob 
dis dread’ful business !” groaned ’Phia, as she trotted 
from chamber to parlor,* and from parlor to kitchen 
on her multifarious duties. 

Even in the midst of her lamentations she met relief. 
In the kitchen she found David Lindsay and his grand- 
mother, just arrived, and waiting to see if they could be 
of any use. 

David, on coming to work that morning, had met Dr. 
Front and had anxiously inquired if any one was sick at 
the “ house,” and in answer had received the news of 
Madame de Crespigney’s death. 


Remorse, 


77 


Then remembering the limited resources of service 
in that small and isolated household, David, with the 
thoughtfulness of a boy who had long had a man’s 
responsibilities on his own young shoulders, re-entered 
his boat and rowed rapidly across to the little sandy 
isle, to tell his grandmother, and even to suggest her 
returning with him. 

The gentle old dame saw even more clearly than her 
grandson had done, the need they had of her at Pro- 
montory Hall. So she lost no time in getting ready to go, 
and in less than half an hour from the moment when 
she received the news, she stood in Sophia’s kitchen, 
earnestly offering her services. 

“ If you’ll only look after de chile, which I b’lieve you 
is a great favorite ’long o’ her, dat is all as I shall ax ob 
said ’Phia. 

And so the sweet old dame “ looked after ” little 
Gloria, and comforted her, night and day, during 
the three days that preparations for the funeral went 
on. 

Meanwhile, David Lindsay made himself useful in 
many ways at the Hall during the day, and at night 
returned to the little isle to take care of the house in 
the absence of its mistress. • 

Often Gloria tried to see and console her stricken 
uncle ; but he always refused to have her, saying : 

“ Let all innocent beings keep aloof from me.” 

Thus, in alternations between the frenzy of remorse 
and the stupor of despair, Marcel de Crespigney passed 
the interval between the death and burial of his 
“ murdered wife,” as, in his morbid self-reproach, he 
called her. 

“ Words kill r he answered to the expostulations of 


78 


Gloria, 


his friend, the doctor. “ Words kill^ and I killed iicr 
with cruel words ! The last words I spoke to her — the 
last words her failing senses heard from me — were 
cruel, murderous words ! They killed her ! What 
though no law can drag me before an earthly tribunal 
to answer for her life ? Before the awful judgment 
seat of the God in my own soul, I stand a self-convicted 
murderer !” 

The good doctor shrugged his shoulders, reflecting 
that it was of no use to argue with a man whose morbid 
sensibility made him, for the time being, a mono- 
maniac. 

Marcel de Crespigney, who had so greatly dis- 
tinguished himself for martial courage and ability 
during the Mexican war, was weaker than a child 
where his sympathies were involved. 

This weakness had betrayed him into all the misery 
of his life. It had drawn him, in his early youth, into a 
marriage with a plain, sickly, faded woman, who loved 
him with that morbid, exclusive, absorbing passion that, 
disappointed, sometimes sends its victim to the mad- 
house or the grave. 

He had married her — ^let the truth be here told — from 
the promptings of compassion alone. He had given her 
all that he had to give — sympathy, tenderness, service. 
But this was not love — not the love she craved and 
missed. Hence came humiliation, morbid brooding, 
and the monomania that turned all his kindly acts and 
motives into outrage and offence. 

Had children blessed their union, and so divided her 
thoughts and affections, or had they — the husband and 
wife — though childless, lived in a city, where society 
must have claimed some of her attention, and taught 


Remorse. 


79 


her something of life, she might have been much 
healthier in mind and body, and their marriage might 
have been happier. 

But in the rear solitude of Promontory Hall, with no 
children to fondle, no society but that of the studious, 
intellectual man whom she vainly and madly loved, 
there could have been but one of two results for her — 
madness or death. The most merciful of the two vras 
hers. 

But it was also impossible that De Crespigney’s mind, 
under all these circumstances, should have retained its 
healthy tone, or that his long patience should not have 
at last become exhausted, so that in one moment of 
unexampled exasperation he lost the self control of years 
and told her the truth — the truth, not “in love,” but in 
wrath and scorn, that had slain her. 

Now he would not seek to palliate his fault or justify 
himself. He would not remember the jealousy, the 
violence, the acrimony with which she had driven him 
to phrenzy ; he would only remember her strong love 
for him and his secret indifference to her, and his deeply 
sympathetic, compassionate and conscientious spirit suf- 
fered pangs of remorse that would seem to others mor- 
bid, excessive and unjustifiable. 

On the fifth day following the catastrophe, the 
remains of Eusebie de Crespigney were placed in an 
elegant rosewood casket and conveyed by boat to the 
little gothic chapel on LaCompte’s Landing, where they 
were met by a small number of old friends and neigh- 
bors, and where, after the religious services were over, 
they were consigned to the family vault under the 
chancel. 


8o 


Gloria, 


Immediately after the funeral, Marcel de Crespigney 
utterly broke down and fell ill of a brain fever. 

Dr. Prout, taking authority on himself in the house- 
hold anarchy, installed Mrs. Lindsay as nurse, and wrote 
to his family. 


CHAPTER VI. 

MISS GRIP. 

She is active, stirring, all fire, 

Cannot rest, cannot tire. 

Browning. . 

Within ten days after the despatch of the doctor’s let- 
ter it was answered in person by the colonel’s maiden 
aunt, who, after many misadventures, reached Promon- 
tory Hall in the afternoon of a very bitter cold January 
day. 

Miss Agrippina de Crespigney, called by her familiars 
Miss Grip, was a slight, wiry little woman, with a dark 
skin, sharp nose and chin, small, keen, brilliant black 
eyes, tightly curled, bright black hair, and a trim figure, 
clothed in a close black cashmere gown, with stiff white 
linen collar and cuffs — a tough little body she was, 
whose sixty years of life’s hard buffeting had not 
seemed to have saddened, weakened or in any other way 
aged, but rather matured, hardened and strengthened. 

For now, in the very depth of one of the hardest win- 
ters that ever was known here, she had undertaken an 
arduous journey of more than twelve hundred miles, 


Miss Grip, 


8i 


from the green savannahs of the “Sunny South” to 
the frozen regions of the icy North, traveling without 
rest, both day and night, by railroads, stage-coaches, and 
tavern hacks, and at length arrived at her destination, 
none the worse for her performance, without showing 
the slightest sign of suffering from cold or from fatigue. 

The last half-day of her hard week’s journey had been 
peculiarly trying. She had reached St. Inigoes by 
stage-coach, early in the morning. After a hasty break- 
fast she had started in the springless carryall belonging 
to the inn, for the Promontory. When she reached the 
shore she had to wait hours there for the tide to ebb 
before she could cross over the neck of land that con- 
nected the island cape to the main. 

Even then the passage was difficult and dangerous 
from the piled up blocks of ice that lay across the road. 

“ I really thought that I was coming to a habitable 
part of the globe, at least ; but this is Nova Zembla ! 
Just Nova Zembla and nothing else ! A waste frag- 
ment of a continent, flung out as useless into an arctic 
sea !” said Miss Grip, as the old carriage pitched and 
tumbled along the narrow ice-encumbered isthmus 
towards the snow-clad promontory. 

“ I hab heern it called a many hard names. Miss, but 
I nebber heered it called Dissemblance afore,” replied 
the negro driver. 

“ Well, then, hold your tongue and mind your horses, 
or you’ll upset me,” rather irrelevantly concluded Miss 
Grip. 

When the -ricketty carryall drew up before the old 
iron gate in the old stone wall that enclosed the stern- 
looking gray-stone house, Miss Grip gave voice once 
more. 


82 


Gloria, 


“ Is it a police-station, or a penitentiary, or a ware- 
house, or a fort, or something of the sort ? This never 
was meant for a gentleman’s private residence.” 

But she did not even wait to cross the threshold 
before she seized the reins of government. As soon as 
she alighted from the carryall she began to issue her 
orders to the driver. 

“ Take the carriage around to the stables — of course 
there are stables and you must find them — put up the 
carriage, feed and water the horses, then come around 
to the kitchen. You must get your supper before you 
go back. Stop ! take my trunk off first and bring it up 
into the house.’” 

The driver began to obey these orders as the brisk 
little woman ran up the steps and sounded an alarm on 
the iron knocker. 

Laban opened the door, and the driver carried in the 
trunk and put it down on the hall floor and departed 
about his other business. 

“ How is your master ?” sharply demanded Miss Grip 
of the astonished negro. 

“ Jes’ de same,” replied the man, as if the answer had 
been rapped out of him. 

How the same ?” 

Onsensible.” 

Miss Grip immediately took off her bonnet and shawl, 
and flung them on the hat-rack, saying : 

“ Show me the way up through this old jail to the den 
where your master lies.” 

The man looked daggers at the insolent little woman, 
but he obeyed her, and led the way to the spacious 
upper chamber where the patient lay, watched by old 
Mrs. Lindsay and patient little Glo’. 


Miss Grip, 


83 


Miss Agrippina nodded silently to the nurse, then 
kissed the child and sent her out of the room, saying 
that a sick room was no wholesome place for a little 
girl. 

Now that Miss De Crespigney had come to take her 
proper place at the bedside of her suffering nephew, 
good Mrs. Lindsay found herself at liberty to return 
home and look after her own little affairs. 

The child wept at parting with her old friend, and 
said : 

I know there is no work to do at the landing while 
all this snow and ice is piled up everywhere ; but, oh, 
do please to send David Lindsay to see me sometimes. 
I shall be so lonesome when you are gone.” 

The gentle old dame promised to do so, and went 
away to look for Laban to row her over to the little 
isle. 

This though a very short, was not always a very safe 
trip, at this season of the year, when floating blocks of 
ice endangered the little boat, and it was only by watch- 
fulness and skill that it was ever accomplished safely. 

From that hour Miss Grip administered the govern- 
ment of Promontory Hall. 

She was an accomplished nurse and housekeeper, and 
not at all an unkindly woman, notwithstanding her 
quick ways. She held a consultation with the doctor 
on his next visit, and learned from him the facts of the 
case, of which she would not inquire of the servants or 
even permit them to speak. 

“ It was the most unhappy marriage I ever heard of. 
But then I always knew Marcel would make a mess of 
it,” was her only comment on the story. 

Then she devoted herself to her sick nephew, who, in 


84 


Gloria. 


his delirium, was always holdiug imaginary conversa- 
tions with his lost wife, and sealing a reconciliation, 
such as in the past had always followed one of their 
quarrels. 

Even Miss Grip would sometimes smile and some- 
times weep to hear him say : 

“ 1 know it, my dear. I knew you did not mean all 
that you said. I knew you were excited. Yes, I know, 
for all that, you love me, Eusebie. There, say no more 
about it, dear. Let us try to forget it,” and so forth, 
for hours, until exhaustion and stupor would follow. 

It was a long illness. The February thaw had come 
and melted the “ iceberg,” as Miss Grip called the snow- 
clad promontory, before Marcel de Crespigney passed 
the crisis of his fever, and then he was so weak in mind 
as well as body that another month passed away before 
he had gradually recovered strength enough to sit up 
in his easy-chair and converse a little. 

Next, when he was able to bear a sustained discourse, 
he gave Miss Grip his own version of the fatal quarrel 
that had precipitated the catastrophe, not sparing him- 
self in the least, but heaping bitter reproaches upon his 
own head, as he had done from the first. 

“Yet,” said Miss Agrippina, “ I cannot see that you 
were so much to blame. But, in any case, it is of no 
use to look back. All that you can do now, is to atone 
in the future for what you have done amiss in the past. 
She has left you no child of her own ; but she has left 
a little niece whom she loved. Be a good father to that 
orphan.” 

“ I will do so,” answered De Crespigney, very meekly. 

“ And now, Marcel, take my advice : Whatever else 
you do, don't make a fool of yourself again by getting 


Miss Grip. 


85 


married. Such a bookworm as you has no business 
with a wife. So don’t be a fool.” 

“ I will not,” sighed the colonel, obediently. 

When he grew stronger still he sent for the little 
portable cabinet in which his lost wife was accustomed 
to keep her papers, and he had it placed upon a stand 
between his easy-chair and the open wood fire, and he 
went through her letters, with the intention of burning 
all of them, lest they should by unforeseen accident fall 
into other hands. 

And here he found what newly awoke his grief and 
his remorse. It was her last will, duly drawn up, signed, 
sealed, and witnessed, in which she bequeathed to him 
the whole of her real and personal estate. Folded in 
with this document was a letter, dated some time back, 
and addressed to her husband, to be opened after her 
death. It seemed to have been written just after one of 
their fierce quarrels and sorrowful reconciliations. In it 
she wrote : 

“ I feel that some day I shall die suddenly in some 
one of my mad fits of excitement. I feel that when 
that shall have happened without time for reconciliation, 
I shall want to speak to you from the other life. I shall 
want to reach my hand across the great gulf that will 
divide us and be reconciled to you from the other life. 
But that may not be my privilege, so I write to you 
now^ and leave with you, for that time^ what I feel that I 
shall want to say to you then.” 

t 

And here followed a most pathetic plea for a char- 
itable construction of her confessed infirmities of temper 
and a prayer for the merciful remembrance of her love. 


86 


Gloria, 


She said not one word about the will she had made 
securing all her property to him ; she was silent on 
that subject, as if she thought it of little importance 
compared to the theme upon which she wrote, her own 
morbid, maddened affections. 

The letter so agitated the convalescent that he suf- 
fered a relapse of several days’ duration. 

As the spring advanced, however, he improved in 
health, strength and spirits. The season was early that 
year, so that by the middle of March every vestige of 
ice and snow had disappeared, and by the first of April 
the fields were green with grass and the trees blossom- 
ing for fruit. And then Marcel de Crespigney was able 
to sit out on the front porch and enjoy the resurrection 
of nature with a new sense of life. 

Meanwhile the business on the fishing landings was 
opening briskly, and, among other workmen, David 
Lindsay found a plenty to do, patching boats and mend- 
ing nets and clearing beaches. 

Again little Gloria went daily down to the old sea wall 
and sat and read to her playmate while he mended old 
seines or netted new ones. She read to him the school 
histories of Rome, Greece and England, while the hun- 
gry mind of the boy swallowed and assimilated them 
all. 

Under the shadow of the old sea wall the life of the 
children was an idyl in Arcadie, until one unhappy day, 
when their innocent affection fell under the notice of 
Miss Agrippina de Crespigney, and shocked that lady’s 
sense of propriety in the most outrageous, manner. 

She was giving the poor old manor-house a fit of the 
severest hydrophobic convulsions, which she called a 
spring cleaning, turning every trunk, box, wardrobe. 


Miss Grip. 


87 


closet and store-room inside out, and raising dust that 
had rested undisturbed for ages, when, thinking that 
she needed more help, she determined to walk down to 
the landing, where, she was told, the fisher-boy was at 
work, and to send him to fetch his grandmother to her 
assistance. When she reached the old sea wall and 
stood in the breach, this is what she saw before her : 

A little fire kindled on the sands, and some fresh fish 
laid on the coals to broil ; a little napkin spread on a flat 
stone, with two little blue-edged plates and green- 
handled knives and forks, a bunch of radishes, a bunch 
of onions, and two rolls of wheat bread ; and lastly, the 
two children sitting, side by side, in the old boat, reading 
from the same book. 

Miss Agrippina raised up both her hands in speechless 
amazement. Then controlling herself, she forbore all 
reproaches to the little, unconscious offender, and only 
saying : “ Gloria, my love, your uncle wants you. Go 
right home,” came calmly down to the scene. 

Quite innocent of any impropriety, the little girl rose 
obediently, and saying : 

I am sorry, David Lindsay, that 1 cannot stay and 
take dinner with you to-day ; but poor uncle, you know ! 
I must go to him directly ; you must take the book 
along with you and read it at home to-night,” she ran 
lightly along, tripped over the broken wall, and home. 

Miss Agrippina turned to dispatch the boy on his 
errand after his grandmother. 

David promptly left his culinary preparations, 
unmoored his boat, and rowed rapidly for the isle. 

And so the children’s little, innocent al fresco feast 
was spoiled ; but that was nothing to what happened 
afterwards. 



CHAPTER VII. 

CHANGES. 

All she did was but to wear out the day ; 

Full oftentimes she leave of him did take ; 

And oft again devised somewhat to say, 

Which she forgot, whereby excuse to make ; 

So loth was she his company to forsake. 

Spenser. 

Miss Agrippina de Crespigney stood in the breach of 
the old stone sea-wall, watching David Lindsay as he 
rowed rapidly from the shore. 

This intimacy must be stopped at once,” she said ; 

that poor, neglected child must be looked after and not 
allowed to associate with every rude boor that she may 
happen to meet on this dreary promontory ! She must 
be sent to school. I will speak to Colonel de Crespigney 
on the subject at once.” 

So muttering. Miss Grip turned, clambered down 
from her standpoint and walked rapidly towards the 
house. 

When she got there she found little Glo* standing 
between her uncle’s knees, as he reclined in his chip- 
bottomed arm-chair in the front porch. 

“ Why, how is this. Aunt Agrippina ? This child says 



Changes, 


89 


you told her I sent for her. It was surely a mistake. I 
never sent for her,” said Colonel de Crespigney, as soon 
as he saw Miss Grip. 

‘‘No one said you did. I told her you wanted her, 
and so you do want her, or at least you ought to,” grimly 
replied the lady. 

“ Why, what on earth do you mean. Miss de Cres- 
pigney ?” 

“ You know very well what I mean, or you should 
know,” severely retorted Miss Grip. 

“ Upon my sacred word of honor, I don’t ! Pray 
explain yourself,” entreated the colonel. 

Instead of replying to him. Miss Agrippina deliber- 
ately divested herself of her bonnet and shawl and gave 
them to the child, saying : 

“ Here, my dear, take these up into my room and put 
them away carefully.” 

“ Now^ then^ what do you mean ?” demanded the 
colonel, when the little girl had disappeared into the 
house. 

“ I mean that you want your ward to stay at home 
until she goes to school, which she must do very soon,” 
said Miss Grip, decidedly. 

“ Go to school ? How can she ? There is no school 
fit for her within fifty miles of this place.” 

“ Certainly not. She must be sent away to a first-class 
boarding-school. ” 

“ I cannot consent to that. Aunt Agrippina. I cannot, 
and will not. I cannot part with her. Besides it would 
break her heart to send her away.” 

“ Fiddle !” said Miss Grip. 

“Yet I see that she should have instruction. I will 
advertise for a first-class resident governess.” 


90 


Gloria, 


“ You will not do any such thing, Colonel Marcellus 
de Crespigney ? A resident governess in the house, 
indeed ! Why, she would marry you in six months !” 

** Absurd !” indignantly exclaimed the colonel. 

** Oh, yes, you may call it ^ absurd,’ if you like ! But 
I know you^ Marcellus ! Any needy woman, any single 
woman, I mean,’young or old, plain or »pretty, shut up in 
the same house with you, would marry you out of 
hand !" 

“You must think me a very weak man,” said the 
colonel. 

“ I do,” said Miss Grip. 

“ Thank you,” said De Crespigney, with an air of 
chagrin. 

“ Weak where your sympathies are concerned, Marcel, 
and that is no discredit to you, my dear ! But 1 11 not have 
any wandering woman making her market at your ex- 
pense ! No, sir ! no resident governess, if you please !” 

“ I hope. Aunt Agrippina, you will permit me to be 
master of my own house, so far as to say who shall or 
shall not make a part of my family.” 

“ Oh, by all means, and take the consequences, too, 
for if you engage a resident governess, I shall leave the 
house. And after / go what respectable woman, do 
you suppose, would come and live here with a young 
widower, and no lady of his family to keep her in coun- 
tenance ? Ah, ha ! I have you there, Marcel ! Yes, 
and I mean to keep you there !” 

“ It is rather unkind of you. Aunt Agrippina ; but I 
shall not argue the point, since I know from experience 
that nothing ever turned you from any resolution that 
you had formed. Still, I say, it is very unkind of you,” 
said the colonel, with a wounded air. 


Changes. 


91 


“ It is for your own good, honey. If I were to stay 
here and let a resident governess come, she would make 
you the captive of her bow and spear, and marry you 
right under my very nose ! It will not do, Marcel. The 
child must be sent to school.” 

“ But she is so young yet. Not nine years old until 
June. You or I can direct her studies for the next year 
or two.” 

“ I don’t see it. Besides, who is to look after her out 
of school hours ? I tell you, Marcel, it is not only for 
her education that she is to be sent from home.” 

“ For what other reason, I pray you ?” 

‘‘ To keep her out of bad company.” 

“ ‘ Bad company ?’ Bad company, in this remote, 
isolated place ?” exclaimed the colonel, gazing at the 
lady in surprise. 

“ Yes ! bad company, J say ! the very worst company ! 
I think it is a shame, a burning and a crying shame,” 
exclaimed Miss Grip, firing up at the sound of her own 
words — “ a burning and a crying shame, that she^ Maria 
da Gloria de la Vera, a Countess of Portugal by birth, 
should be left here to run wild like any little savage, 
with no better companion than a low-born, ignorant 
fisher-boy! There T 

Lord — bless — my — soul — alive !” cried the colonel, 
sarcastically. 

“Where do you suppose I found them?” sharply 
demanded Miss Grip, whose temper was rising. 

“ Found — whom ?” coolly inquired the colonel. 

“ Your niece and ward, the Countess Maria, and your 
hired servant, David, the fisher-boy.” 

“ I wish you would not be ridiculous, my dear aunt. 
What good does that title do our poor little girl, here in 


92 


Gloria, 


democratic America ? Why, even her father, a Portu- 
guese nobleman by birth, but a staunch republican in 
principle, dropped his title when he transferred his 
interests to the United States,” said Marcel. 

“ Then he had no right to do it, and his act is of no 
consequence to his daughter. She is the Countess de 
la Vera, and she would be recognized as such in any 
other civilized country except in democratic America, 
as you call it. But that is not the point.” 

“ What is the point, then ?” 

“ I asked you just now, where you supposed I found 
them?” 

“ In a boat, on the water ?” 

“ No ; sitting on an old, overturned boat under the 
broken sea wall, side by side, with an open book before 
them, both their hands on the covers, both faces bent 
over the same page.” 

“ God bless the child ! She was trying to teach the 
lad !” ejaculated Marcel, with a smile of sympathetic 
pleasure in his eyes. 

“ I say it is most improper ! most indecorous ! most 
objectionable ! for the little Countess Maria to be 
sitting down on an old boat side by side with alow, vul- 
gar, ill-bred fisher-boy !” exclaimed Miss Grip. 

Stop, stop, my dear lady I You go too far indeed ! 
David Lindsay is a poor fisher lad, certainly ; but he is 
not, in any sense of the words, low, vulgar, or ill-bred.” 

‘‘ Now, how can he be anything else ?” 

“ By intuition. He has the intuitions of a little gentle- 
man.” 

“ And now, since you talk like that, I am more deter- 
mined than ever that the child shall go to school,” said 
Miss Grip. 


Changes, 


93 


“ It is of no earthly use for you to persist in saying so, 
Aunt Agrippina. I can not part with little Glo’. She 
is the sunshine of my home — the light of my life ! 
Besides, she loves me so that she could not bear to leave 
me. The separation would grieve her to death.” 

Fiddle !” scornfully repeated Miss Grip. 

The reappearance of little Glo’ interrupted the con- 
versation, and the subject was dropped for the time 
being. 

There is an Indian song which teaches a good lesson 
in perseverance : 

If a man talk a very long time. 

If a man talk a very long time, 

If a man talk a very long time, 

He will bore a hole through a rock.” 

And if a woman so talk, the effect is surer as well as 
swifter. 

At the very first opportunity Miss Agrippina de Cres- 
pigney resumed the subject of sending her niece to 
school, and she talked a “ very long time.” 

. Again and again she returned to the theme, and 
longer and longer she talked. She would listen to no 
proposal of home teaching. She would come to no 
compromise whatever. She would send the little 
“ countess ” to a first-class French and English Ladies’ 
Academy. 

But it was not until late in the summer that Colonel 
de Crespigney, worn out with importunity, and con- 
vinced, though against his will, by argument, reluctantly 
consented to the plan. 

Miss Agrippina acted promptly on his decision, lest 
it should be repented of and withdrawn. 


94 


Gloria, 


“This is Friday, the 14th of August,” she said. “I 
will myself leave here with the child on Monday, the 
17th. We will go to Baltimore and stop at some good 
family boarding-house. Then I will go to the Academy 
of the Sacred Heart, and make an engagement to enter 
her on the re-opening of the school exercises on the 
first of September, get a list of the articles required for 
her school uniform and outfit, have them purchased and 
made ug in the interval, enter my little lady on the 
opening day, and come home. All this will take me 
about a fortnight, I suppose,” said Miss Grip. 

And the same day she packed up a few changes of 
clothes for herself and her niece, and then communicated 
to the child that she was to go to school on the follow- 
ing Monday. 

Her words conveyed but a tithe of the truth to the 
inexperienced little girl, who forthwith went to her ^^^-ar 
Marcel ” for further information. 

She found him in his favorite seat — the old chip- 
bottomed arm-chair, on the front porch. 

“ Am I really going away from you to school, uncle 
dee-dx ?” she inquired, seating herself on his knees and 
putting her arms around his neck. 

“ Yes, my darling. You are a little lady, and must 
be educated, cultivated, refined, accomplished. And 
so you must go to school,” replied “ Marcel,” laying her 
tender cheek against his hirsute face. 

“ But I don’t want to be all that, uncle. I want to 
stay with you always, and play with David Lindsay.” 

Marcel caressed her tenderly, and explained gently 
the absolute necessity of her submission to the social 
law that required her to be educated. 


Changes. 


95 


“Won’t you be lonesome without your little Glo’, 
Marcel, dee-str V* 

“Very lonesome indeed, my child.” 

“ And won’t you be very sorry ?” she asked, smoothing 
his hair with her small hand. 

“ No, not very sorry, darling. I shall be glad because 
it will be for your good,” said De Crespigney, trying to 
look as if he meant what he said. 

“You have got Aunty Agrippina and your books and 
your music to keep you company. But David Lindsay ! 
Oh, Marcel, David Lindsay !” said the child, as the 
tears filled her eyes. 

“ What of him, my pet ?” asked the colonel very 
gravely. 

“ Oh, he has got nobody but me, and no music nor 
books but what I bring him. O\poor David Lind- 
say ! What will he do ?’* sighed Glo’, 

“ He will do very well, my dear. He will be busy 
with his fishing.” 

“ But he can’t be always fishing 1 And he will have 
nobody to play with, or to read with, or to bring him 
books, or — oh, dear ! what shall we do ? Oh, I carCt go 
to school, Marcel ! I can’t ! How can I go and leave 
you and David Lindsay ?” broke forth the child, in a 
wail of distress. 

“ I and David Lindsay must try and console each 
other, in our little lady’s absence, with the thought that 
it is all for her good that she has gone. We shall do 
very well,” said the colonel, more gravely and tenderly 
than he had yet spoken. 

“ Oh, will you ? Will you ? Will you comfort David 
Lindsay ? Will you lend him some books ? Oh, he is 
so hungry for books, uncle I am going to give him 


96 


Gloria, 


all mine before I go away ; but mine are only a few, 
and he will soon read them all. Will you lend him 
some ? Will you, Marcel, dee-2S !” 

“ Yes, darling, I will indeed. I will, my precious. I 
will charge myself with the welfare of your little friend, 
and he shall not want books, nor advice, nor anything 
that he may require, if he wishes to cultivate his mind,” 
said Marcel de Crespigney, who was absolutely without 
any prejudices of rank. 

“ And oh ! will you love David Lindsay, and let him 
love you, like I do ?” 

“ Like you do ? What do you mean, my child ?” 

Like I love you ! Will you love him and let him 
love you, like I love you ?” she pleaded, laying her 
soft cheek against his face — a frequent caress of hers. 

He kissed her for all reply. 

It was too late that Friday evening to see her play- 
mate. She had been reading with him all that after- 
noon, and had taken leave of him before she knew that 
she was to go to school. Now she felt sure that he had 
gone home, and she should not have a chance to see 
him and tell him until the next day. 

Still, she was thinking more of her playmate than of 
any one else, simply because he had more need of her 
than any one else. So she went up to her little book-case 
and took down all her books and packed them in a 
trunk that would hold about twenty-five or thirty mis- 
cellaneous volumes, comprising nearly all of Peter Par- 
ley’s and other juvenile works, that were held in great 
favor at that time. With these she put in two slates, a 
dozen graded copy-books, pens, pencils, india-rubber, 
blotting-papers, inkstand, and every requisite of the 
school-desk that she could find. 


Changes, 


97 


Then she locked it and called up old Laban, and said 
to him : 

“ I want you to shoulder this and take it down to the 
boat-house for me.” 

The old servant looked at the trunk and looked at the 
child, scratched his head, and declared : 

“ I don’t know what you mean. Miss Glo’.” 

The little creature was not disposed to take airs on 
herself ; so she kindly explained to the old man what 
she intended to do with the trunk, adding truthfully : 

“ I told Uncle Marcel, and he did not object.” 

Old Laban then shouldered the trunk and followed 
his little mistress down the stairs, put of the front door, 
and so down to the end of the promontory, through 
the breach in the old sea-wall, and finally to a dilap- 
idated little boat-house, where she directed him to 
place it. 

“ It will be safe there until the morning and then I 
can give it to David Lindsay, and he can carry it 
away in his boat.” 

The sun had set half an hour before, and it was 
growing dark, so little Glo’ and her sable companion 
hurried from the shore back to the house. 

Saturday and Sunday ! I have only got two days 
to be with Uncle Marcel and David Lindsay,” said little 
Glo’ to herself when she awoke the next morning. 

And to make the most of her time, she hurried out of 
bed, dressed herself quickly, and ran down stairs. 

Her aunt and uncle had not yet appeared, so she said 
to the cook : 

“ Just give me a cup of milk and a biscuit, ’Phia, and 
I will eat my breakfast and go. It is my last day but 
one at home, and I must make the most of it,” 


98 


Gloria. 


The old woman complied with her request, and the 
little girl quickly dispatched her. meal, snatched her 
straw hat from the rack in the hall, and ran out of the 
house and down to the beach. 

She stood in the breach of the broken wall and looked 
all around for her playmate, but did not see him, and 
she thought she was going to be disappointed ; but just 
then she heard the sound of a hammer, and knew it 
must come from one held in his hand, for there was no 
one else who worked on the beach. 

She ran down and found him nailing loose boards on 
the old boat-house. 

“ Oh ! David Lindsay,” she exclaimed, as soon as she 
saw him, “ I have got something to tell you ! What do 
you think it is ? Oh, you would never guess ! I am 
going away on Monday !” 

“ Oh ! NO !” cried the boy, while a look of blank con- 
sternation came over his face. 

“ Indeed, I am I I don’t want to go ; but they say I 
must, David Lindsay.” 

“Oh! where are you going?” he asked, in a great 
trouble, that he never dreamed of trying to hide. 

“ To a boarding-school in Baltimore. Oh I I don't 
want to go, David Lindsay I But they say I must I” 
cried the child, almost in tears again. 

The lad sighed, looked thoughtful, and then said s 

“Yes ; I know. Even grandmother has said often ; 
‘ Why don’t they send that little lady to school ? She 
ought to be at school.’ So I suppose you must go, sure 
enough % and it is all right ; but it is very har — hard 1” 
said the boy, valiantly trying to suppress a sob, and suc- 
ceeding in doing so. 

Yes, it is hard ; but Uncle Marcel says that he and 


Chafiges: 


99 


you must console each other and he says he will lend 
you books and give you advice, and help you, if you 
wish, to improve your mind, David Lindsay. And here, 
come in here, and see what I have got for you ! I told 
uncle I was going to give them to you, and he did not 
object. And old Laban brought them down here for 
me yesterday. Come and see,” she said, as she led the 
way into the old boat-house and pointed to the trunk. 

“ Oh !” exclaimed the boy. “ Books ?” 

“ Yes ! ^ Drag the trunk out into the light where I can 
show it to you, David Lindsay.” 

The boy obeyed. 

The girl then unlocked the trunk and gleefully dis- 
played its contents, looking up into the boy’s face with 
eyes dancing with the delight of delighting. Indeed, 
his eyes, radiant with rapture, responded fully. 

“ Oh ! oh ! what heaps of books and things !” he 
cried. 

“ They are all, all yours, David Lindsay !” 

“ Oh ! oh ! how generous you are ! And — oh ! how 
happy you must be !” he exclaimed, fairly catching his 
breath in ecstasy. 

“ Indeed I am very, very happy, David Lindsay !” she 
cried. 

And so she was at that moment, while looking on her 
playmate’s happiness, and forgetting that she had to 
leave him soon and go away from home. 

And then both went to work and tumbled out all the 
slates, pencils, and pens, all the Peter Parleys,” and 
other attractive school books. 

Finally, at the bottom of the trunk, lay two thick 
volumes, which little Glo’ with some difficulty lifted out 


lOO 


Gloria. 


and took upon her lap, and playfully hid with her hand- 
kerchief, saying : 

‘‘ And now, David Lindsay, here are two precious, 
precious treasures, too precious to be read very often !” 

“ AVhat is it ?” said the boy — “ the Holy Bible in two 
volumes T 

No,” answered the girl, gravely and sweetly. “ The 
Word of the Lord is the Book of books, and not to be 
talked of with others.” 

“ Well, then, is it the Lives of the Saints ?” 

“ No,” she answered, smiling ; “ but you can never 
guess. This one in blue and gold is the ‘ Arabian 
Nights’ Entertainments,’ and this one in crimson, with 
the painted picture on the cover, is ‘ Fairy Tales.’ Oh ! 
they are just splendid, David Lindsay ! I love them, 
and so will you ; but you ought not to read them until 
you have done all your work and lessons for the day. 
Mamma never let me have the story-books until I had 
done my lessons,” said the little girl, solemnly. 

Meanwhile David was looking at the new books. 

“ I — I like these a heap better than I do the school 
ones,” he said, as he turned over the pages. 

“ Oh^ to he sure! So do I. But they are only holiday 
books, you know.” 

“ Yes, these are only holidays, and these are working 
hours,” said the boy, with a sigh and a smile, as he 
began to replace the volumes in the bottom of the 
trunk. 

“ I will put them all back again, if you want to go to 
work, David Lindsay,” she said, as she joined him in 
the task that soon, at her word, he left her to complete. 
Then the sound of his hammer kept time to her hands 
as they quickly stowed away the treasures in the trunk. 


Changes. 


lOI 


Presently the boy stopped hammering and came to 
speak to her again. 

“ You are so good to me. You do so much for me, 
and I do not do aiiy for you. I have not found out what to 
do for you ! Oh, could you tell me what I could do for 
you r 

She opened her blue eyes wide with astonishment 
pure and simple. 

“ Why, why, you are always doing ever so much to 
please me !” she said. 

“ Now what I Do just tell me whatV he asked. 

She paused in thought so long that he asked again, 
earnestly : 

What do I do to please you ?” 

‘‘ Oh, I don’t know just what in particular, but you do 
everything every day, all the time ! Why, David Lind- 
say, if you was to go to heaven and leave me behind, I 
should just cry my eyes out ! Yes, I should just sit 
down on the old boat here and cry my eyes out !” And 
moved by the picture her imagination had drawn, she 
might have given him a practical illustration, if he had 
not quickly responded : 

“ But I am not going to heaven to leave you behind ! 
All we Lindsay fishermen live to be old men of eighty 
or ninety, if we don’t get drowned, you know ! Though 
indeed, for the matter of that, we mostly do get 
drowned,” he added in a lower tone. 

But she heard him. and quickly cried : 

“ Oh ! Don't you go and get drowned, please don’t, 
David Lindsay !” 

“ Indeed, I don’t mean to !” said the boy, as he went 
back to his hammering 


102 


Gloria. 


At that moment the colored girl, Lamia, appeared in 
the breach of the wall, calling for Miss Gloria. 

The child stood up, and answered : 

Here I am. Who wants me ?” 

“Your aunt! Leastways, your uncle’s aunt — Miss 
Aggravatin Discrepancy,” said Lamia. 

( That was what the negroes, with their usual blunder- 
ing manner, made out of the lady’s classic and elegant 
maiden name.) 

“What does my aunt want with me. Lamia?” 
inquired the child, with a troubled look. 

“ To try on yer travelin’ dress, which me an’ Miss 
Aggravatin has been a rippin’ up of one of her own old 
allypackers to make over for you, an’ a cuttin’ an a 
bastin’ of it all de whole mornin’. Come along, chile, 
cause it’s got to be finished to-night, ef we sets up 
workin’ on it till to-morrow morning.” 

“ I must go, David Lindsay. I must go. But I will 
come back as soon as ever I can get away. And oh, 
won’t you please try to get through your work so as to 
take time to row me over to Sandy Hill to take leave of 
dee-2ir Granny Lindsay ? Oh, indeed I must go and take 
leave of dee-ox Granny Lindsay ?” said little Glo’, looking 
earnestly in the face of her playmate. 

“ I will work fast and get through all I have to do. 
I won’t stop for dinner, but will work through the noon 
hour, and then I can get done by four o’clock and be 
ready for you,” replied the boy. 

Little Glo’ ran home so as to get through the “ trying 
on” as soon as possible. 

She found her aunt too busy to question her as to 
where she had been. 

Miss Agrippina did not detain her long, but as 


Changes. 


103 


soon as the waist of the dress was fitted, and the 
length of the sleeves and skirt measured, she dismissed 
the child. 

Full of a new idea, little Glo’ ran to seek her uncle. 

She found Colonel de Crespigney in the library, 
seated before the old organ, drawing wierd music from 
its worn-out keys. 

“ Marcel, dee-2cc^ I have only got a day and a half now ! 
Won’t you please let David Lindsay off from his work, 
so he can take me in the row-boat over to bid good-by 
to Granny Lindsay ? Oh, I must say good-by to dee-2iX 
Granny Lindsay before I go,” she pleaded, laying her 
tender cheek against his face. 

“Yes, love,” answered the gentle young uncle. “Yes, 
you shall have your little will while you stay here. Go 
and tell the lad to leave off work at once and row you 
over to the island.” 

She kissed him in warm gratitude and sped away 
to the landing, where she found her playmate still at 
work. 

She told him her joyful news, exclaiming gleefully : 

“We shall have a whole half day holiday, for it is 
only just twelve o’clock, David Lindsay! We shall 
have, oh, such a happy, happy half day !” 

The boy quickly stopped his work and got his boat 
ready. 

Then the children lifted the trunk of books between 
them and placed it in the skiff. Lastly they entered 
and seated themselves, and David took up the oars and 
rowed for the isle. 

They found the old dame busily engaged in preparing 
her frugal early dinner of tea and bread and butter, 
with fried fish, boiled eggs, and peaches and milk. 


104 


Gloria. 


She gave the little lady a warm welcome and divested 
her of her hat and mantle. And while Gloria explained 
that her uncle had given David Lindsay a half holiday, 
the dame added two more cups and saucers and tea- 
spoons and two more plates and pairs of knives and 
forks to the table and put a few more eggs on to boil. 

“ I am going to school on Monday, Granny Lindsay, 
and I have come to take leave of you,” said little Glo’, 
when she took the seat that David had placed for her. 

“ Have ’ee, darling ? I’m glad to see ’ee, and main 
glad to hear ’ee’s going to school,” cordially replied the 
dame. 

“ I don't want to go. Granny Lindsay ! I don't want 
to leave you all,” sighed the child. 

< “ But ’ee ought to, darling. ’Ee’s a little lady, and ’ee 
ought to be trained up as such.” 

“ But I don't want to be. Granny Lindsay ! I want 
to stay Lome with dee-'ox Marcel and you and David 
Lindsay !” sadly persisted the child. 

“ ’Ee must subject ’eeself to ’ee pastors and masters, 
little lady. They do all for ’ee own good.” 

“ Aunt Agrippina says that I am a coimtess, Granny 
Lindsay ; but I know I am not. I am worse at counting 
than at anything else. I never could learn the multipli- 
cation table,” said the child, with a look of perplexity 
and vexation. 

“ So much the more reason for ’ee to go to school, my 
little lady ! Now sit ’ee up to table and have some 
dinner.” 

Little Glo’ soon forgot her trouble in the society of 
Granny Lindsay and David. 

She passed a “ happy, happy half day,” then, with 


Changes. 


105 


many kisses, took a loving leave of her old friend, and 
returned home in charge of the fisher lad. 

It was sunset when they landed on the promontory 
beach. 

“ To-morrow is Sunday. Uncle and aunt and I will 
go to church at La Compte’s Landing. But after 
church we shall come directly home. Will you come in 
the afternoon to bid me a last good-by before I go ? 
You know we are to start before day on Monday, so as 
to catch the St. Inigoes stage-coach,” said little Glo’, as 
she was about to take leave of her friend. 

“Yes, indeed. I am going to church at St. Inigoes, 
but I will go to early mass, so as to be back in time to 
come here in the afternoon,” replied the boy. 

“ So do ! Good-night, David Lindsay !” 

“ Good-night !” 

“ God bless you, David Lindsay !” 

“ And you, too !” 

She sped away towards the house, not singing and 
dancing as had been her custom. Her little loving 
heart was too heavy with the thought of parting with 
her friends. 

The next day she went with her uncle and aunt to 
morning service at La Compte’s Landing, returned with 
them to an early dinner, and then went down to the 
beach to bid a last good-by to her friend and playmate. 

He was waiting for her with a box of fine shells in 
his hand. 

“These are some that grandfather brought home 
from the Indian Ocean. Granny has kept them for a 
long time ; but she wants you to have them now,” he 
said, rising and offering the box. 

“ Oh, how beautiful !” she exclaimed, sitting down 


io6 


Gloi^ia. 


with the box on her lap, and beginning to examine 
them. “ So many different colors ! so many different 
shapes and sizes ! Not two alike !” 

“ People can make pretty boxes and vases out of them, 
granny says. Make the boxes and things out of paste- 
board, you know, and stick the shells on them with 
glue,” said the boy, as he stood looking down on her, 
pleased that she was pleased with his humble offering. 

“ Oh, but I think it would spoil the pretty shells to 
fix them on to anything ! I like them to be free, so I 
can pour them from one hand to the other, and turn 
them over ! Oh, David Lindsay, I am so glad to have 
them ! And so glad you gave them to me, too !” 

“ Granny gave them to me to give to you.” 

“ Well, it is all the same, David Lindsay. And I 
will take the pretty little things to school with me, and 
look at them every day, and keep them for ever and 
ever. Sit down by me and let us look at the little beau- 
ties together. You know that this is our last day.” 

The boy obeyed her. 

She said it was their “ last day ;” and that day was draw- 
ing rapidly to a close. The children knew that they 
were going to part, but they scarcely knew yet what 
the parting was to be to them ; they had had no experi- 
ence in separation ; and both wondered a little in secret 
why they felt no more pain at the immediate prospect 
of losing each other. 

When the sun set, which was always the signal for 
their daily good-night, little Gloria shut up her box of 
shells and arose, saying : ■* 

“ I must go now. Good-by, David Lindsay.” 

“Good-by.” 

“ God bless you ! David Lindsay,” 


Changes, 


107 


“ And you too !” 

Now, according to custom, she should have run home ; 
but she lingered, loth to leave the spot. 

“You know we are going to start long before day- 
light to-morrow morning,” she said. 

“ I — ^know it !” he gasped with a great sob. 

“ Oh ! David Lindsay, don’t cry !” she wailed, with 
the tears rushing to her eyes. 

“ I’m not crying. It’s a lump in my throat,” said the 
poor boy. 

“ Oh, dear ! Oh, dear ! What shall I do ? I don't 
want to go to school ! I don* t want to be a lady ! 1 don't ! 

I don't! And poor Marcel don’t want me to go, neither !” 
wept the child. 

“ And no more do I !” cried the boy, struggling with 
the “ lump in his throat.” 

“ Don’t cry, David Lindsay. Oh ! please don’t cry !” 

“ I’m not crying a bit ! But I don’t want you to go 
away,” sobbed the lad. 

“ Nobody does, but Aunt Grip. It is all Aunt Grip ! 
Oh ! I wish she had never come near the place ! We 
were all so happy until she came ! And she says it is 
all for my own good. And I think that is too bad !” 

Little Glo’s last words awoke the better spirit of the 
boy. 

tie sobbed and sighed, and then set himself to com- 
fort the little lady. 

“ She means it for your good. Even granny says you 
ought to go to school. And so I know it must be all 
right for you to go. And you will come back again, 
and be able to tell me lots of things.” 

“ Oh, yes, indeed ; I will come back for the Christmas 
holidays, you know. And oh ! David Lindsay, every 


io8 


GloiHa, 


time I write to dee-2ir Marcel I will send a message to 
yon. And will you send one back to me, too ?” 

“ If the master will let me.” 

“ Why, of course he will let you ! Dee-dcr Marcel is 
too tender-hearted to refuse. Let me tell you some- 
thing. Aunt Grip, ever since she has been here, has 
been trying to prevent me from coming out here and 
playing with you, and if it had not been for dee-ox 
Marcel, she would have prevented me ; but Marcel 
would not let me be grieved that much.” 

The twilight was fading so fast that the child 
looked up to the sky in alarm, exclaiming : 

“ Oh ! I must go ! I must go ! Good-by, ^^^-ar 
David Lindsay I” 

“ I must walk with you up to the house. It is too 
dark for you to go by yourself,” said the boy, rising to 
accompany her. 

He helped her over the rough stones of the broken 
sea wall, and then walked with her until they reached 
the porch and found Colonel de Crespigney and Miss 
Agrippina sitting out there to enjoy the delicious cool- 
ness of the August evening. 

Then the boy paused and lifted his torn straw hat, 
and said : 

“Good-night.” 

“Good-night. God bless you, ^^^-ar David Lindsay.” 

“ And you too !” 

So the children parted, to meet no more for years to 
come. 

That night, David Lindsay, being a boy, and therefore 
ashamed of his tears, cried “ all alone by himself ” in 
the little loft of his island cot. 


A fter Seven Years. 


109 


That night, little Glo’, being a girl, sobbed herself to 
sleep on the sympathetic bosom of her “^^^-ar Marcel.” 

Long before light the next morning she took tearful 
leave of her uncle and her humble colored friends, and 
started in the custody of Miss Grip for the distant city 
where she was to spend her school days. 

Before the end of the month she was duly entered as 
a resident pupil in the Academy of the Siacred Heart 
Convent. And Miss Agrippina de Crespigney returned 
to Promontory Hall to keep house for her nephew, well 
satisfied. 


chapter VIII. 

AFTER SEVEN YEARS. 

Out of the convent came the maid. 

Robert Browning. 

We have lingered so long over the lovely childhood 
of little Glo’ that we have no time to give to her school- 
days. 

In entering her at the “ Sacred Heart,” Miss 
Agrippina had enrolled her as the “ Countess Maria da 
Gloria de la Vera,” and had provided her with as rich 
and costly an outfit as the rigid rules of the academy 
would permit. She had also furnished her with a plenty 
of pocket-money. 

All this had given the simple-hearted, humble-minded 
little Glo’ a grand rank among her untitled and less 


Gloria. 


1 lO 


wealthy school-mates, who did all they possibly could 
do to transform her from a meek and lovely child to a 
proud and supercilious young lady. 

Poor David Lindsay did not realize the loss of little 
Glo’ until she had really gone. Then he “ sorrowed with- 
out hope.” It is true that he believed she would return 
at Christmas ; but that was four long months off. 

From the fourth day of her departure he began to 
watch for the return of old Laban from his Tuesday’s 
and Friday’s trips to St. Inigoes’ Post-office, and on 
his appearance would call out : 

“ Any letters. Uncle Laban ?” 

The answers were always : 

“Yes.” 

Then, after the decent delay of an hour, the poor, boy 
would go up to the house and bashfully ask for the col- 
onel, and when admitted to his presence stand respect- 
fully, cap in hand, and inquire : 

“ If you please, sir, have you heard from — ” 

“ Miss de la Vera 

“ Yes, sir, please.” 

“ I have. She is well, and sends her kind remem- 
brance to you,” would Colonel de Crespigney reply. 

(Now this was not at all what little Glo’ sent. She 
sent her “ love to dear David Lindsay.” But Colonel de 
Crespigney exercised the guardian’s prudence and privi- 
lege in translating the message sent through him.) 

On hearing this, the boy would twist his little torn 
hat in his hand and say, timidly, hesitatingly : 

“ If you please, sir, when you write — would you please 
to say I thank her very much for thinking of me, and I 
send her my — ” 

“ Respects.'" 


A fter Seven Years. 


1 1 1 


“ Yes, sir, please.” (Now this was not at all what the 
poor boy meant to say ; for he really wished to send 
his “ best love to her.”) 

The parted children had no true interpreter, so no 
wonder a gulf opened and widened between them. But 
Marcel meant well ; and David Lindsay was destined 
to have his turn, when, driven by the very outrage and 
stress of fate, the lovely heiress should lay her hand and 
fortune at the feet of the poor fisherman and implore 
him to take them up. 

She did not come home for the happy Christmas holi- 
days. Miss Agrippina represented to her brother that 
to bring the “ Countess Maria ” back to the promontory 
would be to have all the trouble of parting to go 
through again ; that therefore she had best be left to 
spend her holidays at the school where she was receiving 
her education. 

The gentle colonel, through indolence and good 
nature, had fallen more and more under the dominion 
of his maiden aunt, and therefore consented to all her 
plans. 

So little Glo’ did not come home for her Christmas 
holidays. But her young uncle, who had not ceased to 
mourn in secret the absence of his pet, aroused himself 
from his lethargy, and went to the city, aud took his 
niece from her prison, and spent the Christmas holi- 
days with her at a fashionable hotel, taking her every 
evening to some place of refined amusement, and so 
devoting himself to her pleasure that the little rustic 
had reason to believe that, after all said, the city was 
the true Arcadia, and life, as '^dee-ox Marcel ” made it 
for her, a lovely fairy tale. 

But in all the delights of her new vista of life, she did 


I I 2 


Gloria, 


not yet forget her childhood’s playmate, and amid her 
many questions about “ them all at home,” she did not 
fail to inquire about “ dee-2iX David Lindsay.” 

Her guardian replied that the boy was well and doing 
well, but had not come to borrow any books yet, and, 
perhaps, was not so much interested in improving his 
mind as she had supposed. Boys of his class were not 
likely to be so. 

“ But, Marcel, you must interest yourself in him, and 
not let his interest in his books flag. That was not 
what I expected of you, Marcel !” said his little moni- 
tress, reproachfully. 

“ I will do better when I return, my darling,” replied 
her penitent. 

“ Mind you do, Marcel ! He has no father, no guard- 
ian even, and who will look after my David Lindsay 
now I am away, if you do not ?” 

On the Monday after Twelfth Day he replaced the 
little student in her school and returned to his own 
dreary home and musty books. 

He corresponded with her regularly through the 
winter and spring and the early summer ; and noted the 
great improvement she was making. 

There was one thing, however, that very much 
annoyed him in her letters. She always sent her “ love 
to dear David Lindsay.” But he took care to translate 
this into “ kind remembrance,” and to send back David’s 
“ respects.” So the gulf widened and widened between 
the hearts of the children. 

But David’s time was yet to come. 

Then, on the first of July, when the midsummer holi- 
days were about to commence, he went to the city 
again, took his child out from her prison and carried 


A fter Seven Years. 


1 13 


her off to the Greenbriar White Sulphur Springs to 
give her a glimpse of the glorious mountain scenery, 
and an insight into the great world of society. 
Here the handsome young widower, the heroic young 
officer, with the laurels won in Mexico yet green in the 
memories of all, might have become the hero of the 
season ; but nothing could win him away from his 
“ child.” He rode and drove with her through the wild 
and beautiful forest and mountain scenery. He read 
with her, sang duets with her, played ten-pins with her, 
and generally “ made a fool of himself about her,” as 
more than one aggravated matron with marriageable 
daughters declared. In September he took his child 
back to her school just a year older, and several years 
more experienced than she had been when she first 
entered the institution. 

And now he had reason to congratulate himself on 
one thing. His ward’s interest in the poor fisher-boy 
was evidently dying out, as he had first said it would. 
It was well enough that they should have played 
together as little children, and he had not therefore 
interfered to prevent them. He was too tender-hearted 
indeed to have given them so much pain. But now, at 
last, it was all ended, as it should be. 

The first year was a type of all that followed while 
she remained at the “ Sacred Heart.” Every Christmas 
her young uncle would go and take her from the school 
and spend the holidays with her at a hotel, taking her 
to places of amusement suitable to her age ; and at the 
end of the holidays replacing her at school and return- 
ing to his own home. 

Every June he would go and take her for the mid- 
summer vacation, and travel with her to some delight- 


Gloria, 


114 


ful summer resort among the mountains, or on the lake 
shores, returning her to her convent early in September, 
and then repairing to his own estate. 

Sometimes his mother would write and ask him to bring 
his young ward and join her circle at Newport, or Nia- 
gara, or wherever they might have decided to spend 
their summer season. 

But Colonel de Crespigney always found some good 
excuse for politely declining the invitation. 

The very truth was that Marcel preferred to have 
his little Glo’ all to during these long midsummer 

vacations. 

Her vivid and deep delight in all the sublime and 
beautiful in nature and in art, re-kindled his own 
smouldering enthusiasm and revived his fading youth. 

Thus, through her, he enjoyed life anew. Now his 
time was divided like the Arctic year — into long dark- 
ness and long light. The time spent in his gloomy “ peni- 
tentiary ” on the promontory, was his Arctic night ; the 
time passed in wandering and sight-seeing with his 
brilliant and ardent little traveling companion, was his 
Arctic day. 

David Lindsay, chilled by the cold “ remembrances,” 
that grew cold only in the refrigerator of Marcel’s 
translations, gradually ceased to inquire after Miss de 
la Vera, or send his “ respects ” to her. 

And so the great gulf between the young souls 
seemed impassable, until one desperate leap in the 
dark cleared it. 

Meanwhile the years rolled rapidly onward ; his child 
was growing up, and he himself was growing — middle- 
aged. 

The last time he took her out to spend her midsum- 


A fter Seven Years. 


1^5 


mer vacation in traveling with him through a succes- 
sion of beautiful summer resorts, he was thirty-five 
years old, with perhaps a dozen silver threads scattered 
over his fine head, but glistening with terrible conspic- 
uousness amid the jetty blackness of his hair. She 
was just fifteen, tall and well-developed for her years, 
a radiant blonde, with a delicate Grecian profile, fair, 
clear transparent complexion, large, soft, dark blue 
eyes, veiled by dark eyelashes, and arched by dark eye- 
brows, and with an aureole of lightly fiowing, pale, 
golden-hued hair. 

Marcel had not seen her since the preceding Christ- 
mas holidays, a period of nearly seven months, during 
which she had bloomed from the bud to the half -opened 
rose of womanhood. 

He looked at her with surprised and delighted admir- 
ation. He said nothing on the subject, expressed no 
opinion, paid no compliment — only he refused more 
emphatically than ever his mother’s invitation to bring 
his niece and join her party at Cacouna, Canada ; and 
he resolved, more firmly than ever, to keep his lovely 
ward all to himself. 

Indeed, little Gloria desired nothing better. She 
loved her young uncle with all the devotion of a grate- 
ful, loyal, fervent heart, and was perfectly satisfied 
with his companionship, and only his, in all their sum- 
mer wanderings and sojournings. She had no one else 
to love, poor child ; her Aunt Agrippina she had only 
feared ; and her childhood’s playmate, David Lindsay, 
she only remembered tenderly, like one lost long ago, 
or like the dead. Marcel was all in all to her. 

On this last occasion of which I speak, when Colonel 
de Crespigney, first seeing his young ward after a seven 


Gloria, 


1 16 


months’ absence, was startled into surprise and admira- 
tion at the discovery that the pretty child had bloomed 
into the beautiful girl, he resolved that this should be 
her last year at school ; that whether she should gradu- 
ate or not graduate at the next annual commencement, 
he should withdraw her from the Sacred Heart Acad- 
emy and bring her home “ for good.” 

And then ? 

Marcel kept his future plans to himself. 


CHAPTER IX. 

DUMB LOVE. 


His heart 

Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye 
There was but one beloved face on earth, 

That ever shone upon him. He had lo(5ked 
Upon it till it would not pass away, 

But she in these fond feelings had no share ; 

To her he was a brother ; twas a name 
Her infant friendship had bestowed on him — 

No more. Byron. 

The years that had been spent by Gloria in study 
during the school terms, or in travel during her vaca- 
tions, had been passed by David Lindsay on the little 
sandy island near the promontory. > 

This was his post of duty. Here his aged grand- 
mother still lived without any companion or protector 
but himself. 


Dumb Love. 


117 


He had steadily worked on the fishing landings, and 
he had employed his limited leisure in studying the 
elementary school-books left him by his little playmate. 
He had thoroughly mastered them all, and now he 
longed for more liberty and better means of culture. 
But, true sentinel of Providence, he would not leave his 
sterile post of duty to attain them. 

He had long ceased to ask after Gloria, chilled by the 
coldness with which his modest inquiries had been met 
by Colonel de Crespigney. 

But he had never forgotten his childhood’s friend. 
He cherished the memory of the summers passed in the 
society of his little playmate as the happiest portions of 
his poor life ; and he worshiped her image, that in the 
light of that memory, shone like the vision of an angel. 

It was she who had found him on the beach toiling at 
his daily task, and had awakened his strong but dor- 
mant intelligence, and inspired him with the love and 
longing for knowledge. 

He owed hpr this good, and was glad and grateful to 
owe it. 

One morning in June, he arose early as usual, and 
looking out from the little loft window of his bedroom 
in the island cot, he saw an unusual thing — a large 
schooner at the old promontory wharf, and men 
engaged in landing many boxes, barrels and kegs. 

He had a job of work to do on the landing that day, 
so he dressed himself quickly, ate his breakfast in a 
hurry, got into his little old boat, and in a few moments 
rowed himself to the wharf. 

“ What is all this to-do ?” he inquired of old Laban, 
who was very importantly busy receiving the goods. 

“ Come ashore and lend a hand here ! Our young 


Gloria. 


ii8 


lady is coming home for good dis fall, and de house an» 
groun’ is to be done up splendidly for her — an’ outen 
her money, too, for I know Marse Colonel hasn’t got 
none to spare !” answered the negro, as he let down 
a heavy box he had been helping to land. 

David Lindsay secured his boat, sprang on the wharf, 
and gave his assistance to the men. 

“ So Miss de la Vera is really coming home ?” he 
ventured to ask of Laban. 

“ Yes, on de first October ! Ole Marse Colonel, he done 
gone to Baltimo’ to take her out’n school when de holi- 
days come, an’ dey’s gwine for a trip to Lunnun or 
Europ’, or some o’ dem dere outlandish savidge parts o’ 
de worl’, and dey’s gwine to be gone all de summer ; 
but dey’s cornin’ back in de fall ; dat is, ef so be de can- 
nibals out in dem dere parts don’t kill an’ eat ’em fust ! 
I fink it’s downright dange’ous an’ a temptin’ o’ Provi- 
dence to leave one’s ’spectable home an’ go traipsin’ off 
to dem dare igno’nt places —Lunnun an’ Europ’, and de 
like !” exclaimed Laban, in a tone of disgust and abhor- 
rence. 

“ Miss de la Vera going to Europe !” said David Lind- 
say, to himself rather than to Laban. 

“Hi! what I tell you, boy? Yes, gwine to Europ’ 
long o’ Marse Colonel Discrepancy ! Gwine to see de 
savidges what lib across de big sea. Dare now, yer got 
it. / calls it a downright flyin’ inter de face ob Provi- 
dence. /does! What fink, de Lord A’mighty put 
de big sea a rollin’ ’tween we an’ de cannibals for he to 
go an’ sail across it on a big ship out’n contrariness?’’ 
said Laban. 

“ Is Miss Agrippina to be one of the party ? inquired 
the young man. 


Dumb Love. 


IT9 


” No. Miss Aggravater is gwine to stay here to watch 
the workmen. Miss Aggravater gwine indeed ! Catch 
her at it ! Wish she was, dough ! She might go, ’dout 
any danger. Cannibals wouldn’t eat her, leastways not 
if dey wa’n’t uncommon hungry !” 

David Lindsay said no more, but mused, as he helped 
to land the g’oods. 

“ Dere’s an’ arckman an' a decorum an’ a skippin’ 
gardener cornin’ down by de stage-coach to-morrow,” 
explained Laban, meaning the architect, decorator and 
landscape gardener engaged by Colonel de Crespigney 
to transfigure the dreary promontory and its prison-like 
buildings into a habitable home for the young heiress. 

“ And a precious deal ob money it is a gwine to cost, 
too, wherever it comes from, which I do ’spects it’ll be 
out’n Miss Glo’s own fortin’, for Marse Colonel Discrep- 
ancy hasn’t got too much to tro’ away, dat I knows.” 

Laban was mistaken. He had been misled by 
appearances. 

Marcel de Crespigney, leading his hermit life at the 
promontory, never receiving company, and never going 
from home except when he went to take his ward from 
school, spent little money, had few wants, and lived 
like a very much poorer gentleman than he really vras. 

Hence, in the years he had spent at the promontory, 
the revenues from the fisheries, though not large, had 
been left to accumulate until they had reached a round 
sum, which he determined to invest in the restoration 
and improvement of Promontory Hall, to make his 
home as attractive as possible to his beautiful and 
beloved ward. 

The goods brought to the wharf were all landed and 
stowed away in the old dilapidated store-house, and then 


120 


Gloria. 


the schooner sailed away, and David Lindsay crossed 
the point to the fishing landing and set about his own 
especial work. 

The next day the architect, decorator, and landscape 
gardener came, and work began. The three principals 
went back and forth between the promontory and the 
city once or twice a month, but the workmen remained, 
and were quartered in the house, to the ^eat discon- 
tent of Miss Agrippina, who vowed that she had never 
spent such a disagreeable summer in all the days of her 
life. 

The works were all completed, however, by the 
middle of October ; the gray stone walls of the old 
house were completely covered by a veneering of thin 
white slabs, that gave the building the appearance of a 
marble palace. French plate-glass windows opened upon 
piazzas with mosaic floors and Corinthian pillars. A 
mansard roof crowned the mansion. A fine garden, 
with a parterre of flowers, bloomed around it. Beyond 
that, the once barren fields were verdant with grass. 
The fishing landing on the point had been abolished as 
an ugly nuisance, and a pretty pier, with an equally 
pretty boat-house, had been erected on the place. The 
old sea-wall was repaired and a hedge of osage orange 
trees was planted on its inner side. 

Within the house every part was refurnished freshly 
and handsomely, if not very expensively. 

When the finishing touch was put to the hanging of 
the mirrors and the drooping of the curtains, the 
decorator and the upholsterer, who were the last of the 
artizans to depart, came to take leave of Miss Agrippina 
de Crespigney. 

“And I suppose you are very glad to see the last 


Dtimb Love. 


I 21 


of us^ ma’am,” said Mr. Bracket, the great artist in 

effects.” 

“ I should rather seej^^w here than your successors,” 
replied Miss Agrippina, with even unusual grimness. 

“ Beg pardon ?” said Bracket, interrogatively. 

“ I say 1 would rather see you here than your certain 
successors, the sheriff’s officers, for I expect they will be 
the next strangers I shall be called upon to entertain ! 
Such extravagance I never did see in all the days of my life I 
Well, I thank Providence little portion is safe enough. 
Marcel can’t make ducks and drakes out of thatS 

The two men bowed themselves out of Mrs. 

Aggravater’s ” presence and went their way. 

Colonel de Crespigney and Gloria were expected 
home in a few days. They had returned from their 
European tour in a steamer bound for Quebec, and 
were making a short tour through Canada, before com- 
pleting their travels. 

The first of October was a glorious autumn day. The 
sun was shining with dazzling splendor from a deep 
blue, cloudless sky ; a soft, bright golden haze hung 
over the gorgeously colored woods and fields. 

The new carriage and horses had been sent to St. 
Inigoes to meet the stage that was to bring the travelers 
that far on their journey home. It was from this cir- 
cumstance that David Lindsay knew that Colonel de 
Crespigney and Gloria were expected to arrive that 
afternoon. He knew, besides,* that they could only 
come at low tide, when the waves would have ebbed 
from the ‘‘neck ” and left the road free. There would 
be low tide at half -past three o’clock. 

Now the poor young fisherman was seized with an 
irresistible longing to look once more upon the face of 


122 


Gloria. 


her whom he had loved with the purest and most 
devoted affection, from the hour of their childhood when 
she found him on the beach and claimed him as her play- 
mate until this hour, when, after a seven years’ absence, 
she was returning home. If he should not succeed in 
getting a glimpse of her now, he feared that he might 
never see her again, for his occupation on the promon- 
tory was gone, since the fishing-landing had been 
replaced by a pier and a boat-house. 

He took his fishing-rod and went down on the neck at 
low tide, to wait for her carriage to pass. 

He sat on a high rock, and baited his hook for 
“ sheep’s-head,” which most did congregate about that 
spot. But before he could cast his line into the sea, the 
sound of wheels was heard approaching. He looked 
up and saw the promontory carriage coming slowly down 
the gradual descent leading on to the neck. He drew 
his broad-brimmed straw-hat low over his eyes, and his 
heart almost stood still as he muttered within himself : 

“ Will she recognize ‘ David Lindsay ?’ I should 
know her anywhere, or after any length of time.” 

The carriage was coming. It was wide open, the top 
had been thrown quite down, both back and front, that the 
travelers might enjoy the fresh air and fine scenery of 
land and water on that delicious October afternoon. 

On the coachman’s box sat Laban, lazily holding the 
reins. On the front seat, with his back to the negro, 
sat Colonel de Crespigney, with his traveling cap on his 
knees before him, leaving his fine head, with his waving 
black hair and beard and his Roman features, bare. 

Opposite him, on the back seat, sat a very restless 
young lady, with the face of an eager, vivacious child 
— a face with a delicate Grecian profile, a dainty, rose- 


Dumb Love. 


123 


leaf complexion, sparkling, glad blue eyes, and rippling, 
golden-hued hair. 

She was constantly springing from side to side, gaz- 
ing now on the right, now on the left, to catch glimpses 
of distant objects, once familiar, but long unseen. 

“ Oh, uncle !” she gladly exclaimed. “ I can see the 
tall trees on this side the dee-2iX old house !” 

Wait until you see the house ^ my darling !” he replied, 
conscious of the surprise he should give her when he 
should show her the gray old ‘‘penitentiary” trans- 
figured to a white palace. 

A few more turns of the wheel and he exclaimed : 

“ Look !” 

But the effect was not what he desired and expected. 
She turned on him a surprised and distressed face, 
exclaiming : 

“ Oh, Marcel, what is that ? Where is the dee-sex old 
home ?” 

“ There it is, my precious child ! That is the old 
home, renovated and adorned, and made worthy to 
receive its fair young mistress,” replied the colonel, 
with evident self-complacency. 

“ Oh, Marcel, how could you ? How could you do such 
a thing ?” she cried, reproachfully — “ how could you 
treat the ^^^-ar old home that way ? It is not familiar ; 
it is not the same at all ! I do not know it at all ! Oh, 
I as so disappointed and so sorry !” 

“ My dear, I thought to have given you a pleasant 
surprise. I thought only of your happiness,” replied 
the poor colonel. 

“ And I expected to find the ^^^-ar old place just as I 
left it ! Just as I left it / And oh ! look there I” 

“ What now, my dear ?” 


124 


Gloria. 


‘‘ Oh, Marcel ! what have you done to the old sea wall 
and the dee-d^x old lishing landing, where I and David 
Lindsay used to play when we were children ?” 

“ My dear, that fishing landing was a nuisance to 
sight and smell. See what a pretty pier and boat-house 
are built on its site,” said Colonel De Crespigney. 

“ Oh, Marcel ! how could you ? How could you ? You 
have spoiled everything ! You have spoiled everything ! 
You have killed the ^^^-ar old place ! Instead of a liv- 
ing being in poor old clothes, it is a dead corpse in fine 
dress and flowers. Oh, I shall never see the dee-2x old 
house and the ^^<f-ar old landing again ! If I had 
known this I would never have come back ! I might as 
well have stayed in Europe. Oh, I am so disappointed 
and so sorry, I could break my heart !” cried the girl, 
with a piteous look of distress into the face of her 
guardian ; but there she met an expression of so much 
misery that her tone changed instantly from reproaches 
to self-condemnation. 

“ Oh, what a selfish, ungrateful wretch I am, ^^^-ar 
Marcel ! And such an idiotic little fool besides. 
You did it all to please me, and I ought to be glad and 
grateful, and so I shall be when I have sense enough 
to appreciate it all ; dee-dx Marcel, forgive me,” she 
pleaded, bending forward to lay her cheek against his 
whiskered face, as she had been used to do in her child- 
hood. 

“ I am only so grieved, my child, to have given you 
pain instead of pleasure ; but no doubt I am but a blun- 
dering brute !” sighed the colonel. 

“ Oh, no, no ; you are the very best and dearest and 
most unselfish one in the world. I cannot remember 


Dumb Love. 


125 


the time when I did not love and honor you above all 
other ones on earth.” 

“ My little Glo’, it was all the more reason I should 
have studied youv nature and planned for your happi- 
ness more intelligently,” sadly replied the colonel. 

“ Oh, Marcel ! Don’t say that, or I shall think you 
have not forgiven me. You have studied my happiness 
more than I deserved. You have done the very best 
for me always. In regard to these changes, they cer- 
tainly do make a great improvement, which I shall be 
sure to appreciate and enjoy. It was only just at first, 
when I was looking to see the dee-dee old place in its old 
familiar face, that the change struck me as a disap- 
pointment, and I am such a fool for blurting out my very 
first thoughts and feelings !” said Gloria, caressing her 
uncle. 

She was disappointed, poor girl ; for to return some 
time to the old home and the old life had been the fond 
dream of the young, faithful heart in the long years of 
her exile and homesickness ; and now to return and 
find all changed, even for the better, was a painful 
shock. 

Colonel de Crespigney knew it now, and could not for- 
give himself for not anticipating such an effect. 

“ Do not look so grave, Marcel, or I shall think you 
never will forget my folly,” she pleaded. “ Listen now, 
and let me tell you something, Marcel ! Seeing the 
dee-diV old place all freshened up, and decorated and 
changed into something else, was just as if, when I was 
looking iox you^ and expecting to see you as you used to 
look — why — instead of my dee-dx, old, black-bearded 
darkey of an uncle, I had found a golden-haired, rosy- 
cheeked young fairy prince ! There ! That expresses 


26 


Gloria. 


my feelings in regard to seeing the dee-ox old home 
changed into something else !” 

De Crespigney smiled ; he felt pleased and flattered ; 
he also understood her better and loved her more, as 
he remembered that she had always cherished a sweet, 
loyal love for old familiar friends and places. He sud- 
denly recalled the days when he had first known her as 
an infant of three years old, when some one had broken 
the head off her doll, and he himself had bought her a 
splendid young lady of waxen mould with rosy cheeks 
and flaxen hair, and dressed in silk attire, how she had 
hugged her poor old headless dolly to her faithful little 
heart and refused to part with it in favor of the radiant 
new one. 

And later when she first arrived at the Promontory 
bringing a little mongrel dog, who died soon after, and 
to comfort her he brought home a little white poodle, 
how sadly she turned away from the new claimant of 
her notice, murmuring, “ Oh, uncle, I can't love another 
little dog so soon though in a few days afterwards she 
picked up the little poodle and petted him, muttering^ 
Pcfvr Carlo^ it wasn’t your fault that poor little Flora 
died, was it ?” and loved him ever afterwards. 

About the same time, reading the story of “ Beauty 
and the Beast,” she had sighed, and said, “ If I had 
been Beauty I would have loved the dee-2x old Beast ; 
I would not have wanted to have his head cut off to 
change him into anything else, not even a fairy 
prince !” 

All these traits of her childhood recurred to the mind 
of De Crespigney, as he listened to the little penitent’s 
frank confession. 


Dumb Love, 


127 


“ I understand, dear heart ! I understand perfectly,” 
he said, as he raised her hand and pressed it to his lips. 

She smiled radiantly on him, and then turned and 
looked about her, as if in search of other changes. 

Then her eyes fell upon the form of a young man 
seated on a rock, and apparently engaged in fishing. 

She bent forward, gazed more attentively, and sud- 
denly exclaimed : 

“ Oh, Marcel, there is David Lindsay ! I know it is 
David Lindsay ! He has grown tall ; of course, I 
expected to ^nd him grown up, but he has the same 
face and eyes that I should know if I should meet him 
in Africa. Oh ! I thank the Lord he is not changed into 
anything else ! Oh, Marcel ! I must speak to David 
Lindsay. Here, Laban, stop the horses ! Stop them 
right here !” 

The negro coachman touched his hat and drew up 
opposite the rock on which the young man sat, and 
within a few feet of it. 

She leaned out, and called : 

“ David Lindsay ! David Lindsay ! Oh, David 
Lindsay, come here !” 

He looked up at the sound of her voice, and paled and 
shook with emotion as he drew in his fishing-line, laid it 
down beside him, arose, and approached the carriage. 

“ Oh, David Lindsay, how do you do .? I am so over- 
joyed to see you once more ! Why ! don’t you remem- 
ber me — your old playmate of the fishing-landing?” 
she inquired, seeing that he hesitated to take the hand 
she had offered him. ’ 

He took the delicately gloved fingers then, however, . 
and bowed over them. 

“ Why — don’t you remember the old sea-wall, and the 


28 


Gloria, 


old broken boat, and the good times we used to have 
there, and the little dinners we used to cook on the 
beach, and the little schools we used to keep ? Don’t 
you remember, David Lindsay ?” she gladly inquired, 
with a childlike eagerness, as she smiled upon him. 

“ Oh, yes. Miss, I remember well,” he answered, in a 
low, subdued voice. 

“ Oh ! I think that was the happiest time in my whole 
life, David Lindsay ! Don’t you ?” 

“ It was the happiest time in mine. Miss,” he replied, 
in the same subdued tone, as he kept his eyes fixed 
upon the ground, not trusting them to look at her 
again. 

“ And how is dear Granny Lindsay ? Is she still at 
the cot on the isle ? Is she as busy and active as ever ?” 
inquired Gloria, with new interest in her tone. 

“ She is as well as she can be at seventy years of age, 
but more infirm than 'when you knew her last. She 
lives at the cot on the isle, and she is as busy, but not 
as active as ever,” he answered, slowly and gravely. 

“ Oh, what happy, happy days we used to have at her 
house, David Lindsay ! Such happy, happy days ! Do 
you remember them ?” 

Did he not remember the7n ? 

Ah, yes ! but, with her bright face beaming down upon 
him, bringing the light of those days so vividly before 
him, with the memory of their frank, childish affection 
then, and the consciousness of the gulf that opened 
between them now, it had grown more and more diffi- 
cult for him to answer her. NoV he seemed tongue- 
tied. 

“ Do you think she will let me come and spend a day 
with her, just as I used to do ? Oh, how I should like 



SHE SPENT THE KEMAINDEK OF THE EVENING IN PLAYING AND SINGING FAVORITE SONGS. 


—See Page 133 



\ . 


« 



I 


\ 




% 




\ 










I* 

. V 







« I 


I 






* \i 



r. 


* V • «h 


I 


I 


Dumb Love. 


29 


to do so ! It would be so like old times ! Would she 
let me, David Lindsay ?” 

“ Ind ed, she would be very happy to do so,** replied 
the yoii man, partly recovering his voice. 

Well, then, will you ask her if I may come to-mor- 
row ? And will you row me over, as you used to do, 
David Lindsay ?” 

“ I shall be too happy to do so. Miss de la Vera.*’ 

Ah, how glad I shall be to see ^ke-ar Granny Lind- 
say, and revive one of those old-time, happy, happy 
days !” exclaimed Gloria, with great animation. 

“ My dear,” said Colonel de Crespigney, gravely, “ the 
tide is coming in, and we are not more than half-way 
across. It is not safe to remain here a moment longer. 
We can scarcely cross before the road will be six feet 
under water !’* 

“ And David Lindsay has to walk ! He will never be 
able to cross in safety ! And it is I who have kept him 
loitering here ! Oh, I am so sorry ! But you must not 
walk, indeed, David Lindsay ! Get in here and sit 
beside me, if you please. Yes, but I insist upon it 
now !” she added, seeing that he did not comply with 
her request. 

“You had better do so, Lindsay,” coldly added 
Colonel de Crespigneyy as he left his own seat and sat 
down beside Gloria, leaving the front cushion free for 
the young man. 

“ I thank you very much. Miss de la Vera, and you 
also, sir ; but I can easily walk the way before the road 
will be covered,” replied young Lindsay, as he bowed 
and retreated from the carriage. 

“‘A willful man must have his way,*” said the 
colonel. 


130 


Gloria. 


“ Oh Marcel, you did not invite him half cordially 
enough !” cried Gloria. “ And suppose he was to be 
overtaken by the tide and swept away !” 

“ No danger. Look there,” said the colonel, pointing 
to the road before the carriage, down which David 
Lindsay, with his fishing tackle in his hand, was striding 
at a good rate. 

The horses were now started and driven off at a 
speed. They passed the young lyian, who raised his hat 
as they whirled out of sight. 

“ Marcel, I will never forgive you, if David Lindsay 
is drowned !” exclaimed Gloria, on the verge of tears. 

“ No danger. Miss !” volunteered old Laban from the 
box. “There is a plenty o’ time, an’ he’s a famous 
hand at walking.” 

“ Foot at walking, you mean, old man, don’t you ?” 
inquired Colonel de Crespigney. 

“ I don’t see how you can jest, Marcel, when any 
fellow-creature, not to say David Lindsay, is in peril,” 
exclaiified Gloria, reproachfully. 

“ Do you, then, suppose, my dear, that I am capable 
of jesting with the peril of any fellow creature ? Is not 
my jesting proof enough that there is no peril ?” 
inquired the colonel, deprecatingly. 

She did not answer him. She had twisted her head 
quite around to look back on the figure of the young 
man, who was striding fast behind the carriage. 

And during the remainder of their rapid drive she 
continued from time to time to look back at the strid- 
ing figure, until at length they had crossed the long and 
reached the higher and broader portion of the pro- 
montory that was so soon to be turned by the high tide 
into an island. 


Dumb Love. 




Then for the last time she looked and saw that 
though the lowest part of the isthmus was covered with 
the waves, yet as David Lindsay was already ascend- 
ing the rise towards the promontory, he was out of dan- 
ger. 

It was nearly dark when they reached the house, 
which was already lighted up for the reception of the 
travelers. 

Miss Agrippina de Crespigney, attended by Sophia 
and Lamia, stood in the hall to welcome them home. 

She took Gloria by thp waist, kissed her on both 
cheeks and said : 

“ You are looking very well, my dear. How much 
you have grown !” 

Then, when Gloria had returned her caresses and her 
compliments, saying : 

“ You are looking finely, aunt. You are not changed 
at all. I think no one is changed except David Lind- 
say and myself. I think people must grow up and stay so 
until they become very old.” 

But quick Miss Grip had already turned to her nephew 
to shake hands with him, and left Gloria free to receive 
the welcome of her colored friends 

“ How you has growed ! My patience alibe, how 
you has growed, honey !” was the greeting of Thia. 

“ ’Deed I is mighty proud to see you. Miss Glo’, ’deed 
is I !” was the cordial exclamation of Lamia. 

“ You had better prove your feelings in a more prac- 
tical manner by showing your mistress up to her room,” 
said prompt Miss Grip. 

“ Come on. Miss Glo’ !” said the unceremonious girl. 

“ Yes, indeed. Lamia, I do wish to lay off my wraps. 
I have been wearing them so long,” responded the young 


132 


Gloria. 


lady, as she followed her maid up the broad staircase to 
the large southeast room overlooking the sea, which had 
been hers in her childhood. 

“ Ain’t it just lovely. Miss Glo’ ?” triumphantly 
exclaimed the girl, as she threw open the door and dis- 
played the renovated and decorated chamber, blooming 
like a rose in its pink silk and white lace curtains, its 
pink velvet and white satin chairs, and its pink and 
white walls and carpet. 

“ Isn’t it just lovely, now. Miss Glo' ?” repeated the 
pleased maid. ^ 

“ Oh, dear, yes, I suppose it is ; but it isn’t like my 
dee-ox old room at all ! Not even the fire-place !” she 
sighed, as she turned to the glowing coals of a polished 
steel grate that had replaced the blazing hickory logs 
of the old open chimney that was so familiar to her 
childhood. 

Why, you don’t like it. Miss Glo’ !” exclaimed the 
girl in surprise and disappointment. 

“ Oh, yes, I do ; but — it is not like home at all ! Noth- 
ing is . like home, and I feel as if I had come into a 
strange house, and should never reach home again !” 
sighed the homesick child, as she laid her hat on the 
pretty counterpane of white crochet over pink silk. 

“ And we took such pains to please you !” said the 
maid, sorrowfully. 

Poor Lamia! Well, I am pleased, only I would like 
to have seen my old room once more just as it was. 
Come now and help me to dress. My boxes have 
arrived, I suppose. They were sent by express to Leon- 
ardtown last week.” 

“ Oh, yes. Miss, soon as ebber de letter an’ de keys 
come by mail, us sent daddy wid de wagon to Lennun- 


Dumb Love. 


133 


town to fetch de boxes home, which dey rove safe an’ 
soun’, an’ I nnpackded dem an’ put all de fings ’way 
in de boorers an’ ward’obes.” 

“ That was right. Just give me the blue cashmere 
suit and the lace that is with it.” 

The girl obeyed, and the young lady soon completed 
her toilet and went down stairs to join her aunt and 
uncle in the drawing-room. 

Dinner was soon afterward served. 

When that was over, the small party returned to the 
drawing-room, where Colonel de Crespigney wished 
to show his niece the new grand piano that he had 
selected for her. Here was also a music-stand supplied 
with the works of the great masters. 

He opened the piano and led her to it. 

She seated herself and touched the keys, and found 
the instrument to be one of very superior tone. 

She spent the remainder of the evening in playing 
and singing the favorite airs and songs of her uncle. 
Her voice was a pure, clear soprano, and her soul was 
always in her song. Hence, though she might 'never 
have achieved a grand success as a public singer, she 
was very effective as a parlor performer. 

At the close of this musical entertainment the small 
party separated and retired to bed. 

And so ended the day of Gloria’s return home. 



CHAPTER X. 

MYSTERIOUS DANG ER. 

Something of a cold mistrust. 

Wonderful, and most unjust. 

Something of a surly fear 
Fills my soul wheii^he is near. 

^ Caroline Norton. 

Gloria did not carry out her intention of going to 
Sandy Isle on the next day to see her old friend, Granny 
Lindsay. 

The weather had changed in the night, and a week of 
steady rain set in. 

The small family were confined to the house, and had 
to find what amusement they could within doors. 

Colonel de Crespigney found occupation and enter- 
tainment enough in unpacking his books from' the boxes 
in which they had been carefully put away to keep them 
safe from the workmen who were in the house, engaged 
in the work of restoration, during his absence in Europe 
with his ward. 

Gloria found interesting employment in turning over 
and inspecting the beautiful wardrobe she had brought 
over from London and Paris ; and afterwards in ram- 


Mysterious Danger, 


135 


bling through all the rooms of the rejuvenated old house, 
to which she could scarcely become reconciled. 

“ Oh, it is all very fine, I dare say, and it was very 
good of the colonel, and I ought to admire it very much, 
but it reminds me of the melancholy old ladies I have 
seen at public places, all painted up with rouge and 
pearl powder. The old house was more respectable and 
even more beautiful and artistic in its old aspect.” 

Miss de Crespigney engaged herself in preparations 
for her departure,, for she was going South to spend the 
winter with her brother and sister-in-law, and had 
delayed her departure only to receive Colonel de Cres- 
pigney and Gloria on their return to Promontory Hall. 

By the time that the rainy season came to an end and 
the sun of the Indian summer shone out again. Colonel 
de Crespigney 's books were all unpacked, catalogued, 
and restored to their niches in the newly furnished 
library ; Miss de la Vera's personal effects were 
inspected and arranged, and Miss de Crespigney’s pre- 
parations for her departure were complete. 

I have reconstructed your household government, 
and trained your servants so well in the seven years that 
I have passed in this house, Marcel, that now I think 
affairs will run quite smoothly in the present groove 
with only the nominal mistress of the house that the 
little countess will make. I think, however, that you 
should take your niece to Washington in December, and 
spend the fashionable season there with her, where she 
may have some opportunity of marriage, suitable to her 
rank and wealth,” said Missde Crespigney to the colonel 
in a tete-d-tete she held with him on the day before she 
was to leave the promontory. 

Gloria is but sixteen. There is time enough five 


136 


Gloria. 


years hence to think of marrying her off/' replied 
Colonel de Crespigney, wincing, for he was less inclined 
than ever to display his treasure to the world ; more 
disposed than before to keep her all to himself. 

Late in the day, Miss De Crespigney said to the 
young lady : 

“ You must make your uncle take you to Washington 
for the season, my dear. It is not right that you should 
be buried in your youth in this remote and solitary 
home. You are the Countess de la Vera, and should be 
brought in society suited to your rank. My sister-in- 
law, Madame de Crespigney, will be in Washington this 
winter. She has no unmarried daughters of her own, 
and I am sure she would feel honored to chaperone the 
Countess Gloria. Make your uncle take you to Wash- 
ington this winter, my dear.” 

Oh, Aunt Agrippina, I thank you for your kindness 
in thinking about me so much, and I assure you that 
Marcel would do anything to please me without being 
made to do it ; but really I do want to stay home and be 
quiet this winter. Ever since I left school — the first of 
July — I have been going to places all the time. I am 
so tired of going to so many places and seeing so many 
things. I don’t want to go away again for ever so 
long. I want to stay here and see all my dee-2s old 
friends and live the^<?^-ar old time sover again,” pleaded 
Gloria. 

“ My child, you can never live the old times over 
again any more than you can go back to your babyhood 
and live that over again. And as for old friends, Gloria, 
you have none.” 

“ Oh, yes ! there is dee-d^c Granny Lindsay and David 
Lindsay I” 


Mysterious Danger, 


137 


“ Not the right sort of friends for the Countess de la 
Vera. But there is all the more reason why you should 
go to Washington. I will speak to my nephew again 
on the subject,” said Miss de Crespigney. 

And she did speak to the colonel that same afternoon, 
but without effect. 

No doubt if she had stayed longer she might have 
gained her point. 

“ For if a man talk a very long time,” &c. 

I have quoted that piece of wisdom already. Miss de 
Crespigney had not “a very long time” to ^‘talk.” 
She was to leave Promontory Hall the next morning. 

Her last “ official ’ act that night was to call the three 
servants into the dining-room and give them a final 
lecture on their duties to themselves, to each other, and 
to their master and mistress. 

“ And let me impress this fact upon you,” she said, 
gravely ; “ the young lady of this house is not a Mary- 
lander. She is not even an American. She is a 
Portuguese West Indian, and a countess by birth and 
inheritance. You are not to address her, or speak of 
her, as Miss Glo’. I won’t have it ! You are to speak 
of her as the Countess Gloria. Remember that !” 

Then, after some other instructive discourses, the old 
lady distributed some presents among them and dis- 
missed the party. 

The next morning Miss de Crespigney left Promon- 
tory Hall in the old family traveling carriage, driven by 
Laban as far as St. Inigoes, where she was to meet the 
stage-coach that was to take her to Baltimore. 

Her directions to the servants in regard to Miss de la 


138 


Gloria, 


Vera’s Portuguese birth and rank were remembered 
with simple indignation by the two women, Thia and 
Lamia, who did not know a Portug^iese from a port- 
monnaie, or a countess from a counterpane. 

“ Call our Miss Glo’ countess, indeed ! Sha’n’t do no 
sich fing ! Deed, I fink it would be downright undes- 
pectful to call our young lady countess, as nebber had de 
trouble ob countin’ de chickens, or de ducks, or anyfing 
on de place, all her blessed life, ’ exclaimed ’Phia, wrath- 
fully beating out her excitement on the feather pillow of 
the bed she was helping her daughter to make up. 

“ What Miss Aggravater means by it, any ways ?” 
scornfully inquired Lamia 

“ Contrariness, nuffin’ else !” replied ’Phia, giving the 
pillow a portentous whack with her fists. 

And from that time they continued to call the golden- 
haired girl Miss Glo’, and nothing else. 

Meanwhile Gloria and her uncle lived together day 
after day, and week after week, and never seemed to 
tire of each other, or to desire any other society. 

She had none of the cares that might have fallen on 
her as the young mistress of the house. 

’Phia had been trained by Miss “ Aggravater ” into a 
model manager, and was quite capable of assuming all 
the responsibility and discharging all the duties of a 
good housekeeper. 

Thus the young lady, while holding all the authority 
of the mistress, enjoyed all the freedom of a guest. 

Every morning after breakfast she brought her little 
fancy work-basket down into the library, and sat in a 
low chair by the table where her uncle was reading or 
writing. 

She sat very quietly working, as she used in her child- 


Mysterious Danger. 


139 


hood to sit playing. She never disturbed him by a word 
or a movement, being contented only to remain near 
him. 

Yet whatever might be his occupation, of reading or of 
writing, he was sure to share it with her. It was in this 
way : If he happened to be engaged with a book, he 
would read choice selections from his author, and then 
draw her thoughts forth in praise or censure of the sub- 
ject, or its treatment. If he were engaged with his pen, 
he would read to her what he had written, and invite 
her to suggest any alteration or improvement that 
might occur to her mind. 

And he was often amused and sometimes startled by 
the brightness and originality of her thoughts and criti- 
cisms. 

Sometimes he would pause in his employment and sit 
and silently watch her at her pretty work of silk embroid- 
ery. At such times, she worked more diligently than at 
others, keeping her eyes fixed upon her needle, and 
never daring to raise them to his face. 

If you had asked her — why was this ? she could not 
have told you. She did not know herself. She only 
knew, or rather felt, that, at such moments, to meet 
Marcel’s eyes made her own eyes sink to the floor, and 
her cheeks to bum with confusion, indignation and mis- 
ery. 

She hated herself for this unkind emotion, which she 
could neither comprehend nor conquer. 

“ Why,” she asked of her heart in vain — “ why should 
I feel so wounded, insulted, and offended at the steady 
gaze of dee-2it Marcel, who loves me so truly, and whom 
I love and honor more than any other one in the whole 
world T 


140 


Gloria, 


She could not answer her own question. She only 
felt that she hated herself for entertaining such feelings, 
and sometimes even hated her dee-'ox Marcel for inspir- 
ing^hem. 

From some strange intuition she had ceased to call 
him “ Marcel, dee-a,ri' with tender slowness drawing out 
the word into two syllables, and dwelling with pathetic 
fondness on the first. She called him “ uncle, dear,” with 
respectful brevity, and nothing more. 

On one occasion, while she was sitting at his feet in 
the library, engaged with her flower embroider}^ in col- 
ored silks, and not daring to raise her eyes, because her 
burning cheeks and shrinking heart assured her that 
he had ceased reading and was gazing steadily upon her. 
he said, with a touching sadness : 

“ I fear that you are often dull in this lonely house, 
dear child.” 

‘‘ Oh, no, uncle, never dull,” she answered, without 
raising her eyes. 

“ And never weary of a tiresome bookworm like me 

“ Never, uncle, dear,” she answered, kindly, touched 
by the pathos of his tone, but half afraid of the pity 
that she felt for him, lest it should lead her into some 
vague, ill-understood wrong or woe. 

“ Gloria,” he said, in a strangely earnest tone. 

“ Well, uncle ?” she breathed, in fear of — she knew 
not what. 

“Look at me, my darling.” 

She raised her eyes to his face, but when she met his 
glance she dropped them immediately. 

“ Gloria ?” 

“ What is it, uncle, dear ?” 


Mysterious Danger. 141 


“I wish you would not call me ‘uncle.’ I am not 
your uncle, child. Do you not know it V 

She did not speak or look up, but worked steadily 
on her embroidery, feeling that the atmosphere 
oppressed her so that she could scarcely breathe. 

“ Do you not know that I am not your uncle, 
Gloria ? Do you not know that I am not the least 
kin to you ? Answer me, my darling.” 

“Yes, 1 know it,” said the perplexed girl, scarcely 
above her breath. 

“ Then you do not love me the less for not being 
your own uncle 

“ Oh, no,” breathed the girl. 

“ While I — Ah ! my child, I thank Heaven every 
day of my life that I am no blood relation of yours,” 
he added earnestly. 

She heard him with a shudder, but made no reply. 

“You must not call me uncle any longer, my darling. 
You must call me ‘ Marcel,’ as you used to do. Do you 
hear me, Gloria ? Will you call me ‘ Marcel ’ as of old ?” 

She felt herself almost suffocating under the passion 
of his gaze, but she forced herself to answer, though in 
the lowest tone : 

“ I cannot do so now.” 

“But why? You used to do so, my dearest. You 
used to call me nothing but Marcel.” 

“ That was — when I was a baby — or a child. I called 
you — what I heard others call you — as children will. I 
knew no better then. I know better now,” she 
answered, with a fruitless attempt to speak firmly ; for 
her voice sank and almost expired, as she wished her- 
self a thousand miles from her present seat, yet felt 
that she had no power to flee, 


142 


Gloria. 


“ But my dear, you cannot go on calling me uncle, 
for I am not your uncle,” he answered, really pleased 
and flattered by the distress that he fatally misunder- 
stood, because, in fact, it resembled the sweet confusion 
of the girls who had been “ in love ” with him in his 
earlier youth. “No, Gloria, you must not call me 
uncle,” he repeated. 

“Then I must call you Colonel de Crespigney,” she 
replied, without raising her oppressed eyes. 

“ Never ! that would be almost as bad as the other. 
No, you must call me Marcel, as you used to do. 
How sweetly the syllables fell, bird -like, bell-like, flute- 
like, from your lips, my darling.” 

She made no answer, but wished she had the power 
to rise and go away. 

“ Gloria,” he said, dropping his voice to the lowest 
tone — “ Gloria, I told you just now’ that I thanked 
Heaven there was no blood relationship between you 
and me ! Can you divine, my love, why I do so thank 
Heaven that we are of no kin ?” 

She trembled, but could not speak or move. 

“ Can you not, my child ? Ah ! you do ! you do !” 
he sighed, seizing both her hands and trying to draw 
her towards him. 

The touch gave her the poVer she needed. 

“ No ! I don’t ! I don’t know what you mean !” she sud- 
denly cried, snatching her hands from his, starting up and 
rushing out of the room. Nor did she stop until she 
had gained the solitude of her own chamber, where 
she banged to and locked the door, and then sank 
half dead upon her sofa. 

She really did not know, and did not want to know, 
what her guardian meant by his strange speech any 


Mysterious Danger. 


H3 


more than by his strange manner. “ She understood a 
horror in his words, but not his words.” She felt a sud- 
den abhorrence of his person that sent her flying from 
his presence. 

And now, in the seclusion of her own room, her over- 
wrought feelings broke forth in a flood of tears. 

These relieved her, and then she began to ask her- 
self the cause of all this excessive emotion. She could 
discover no reasonable cause. Her guardian had been 
as kind, or even kinder than usual. He had only looked 
at her very intently, and asked her if she knew why 
he thanked Heaven that there was no blood relation- 
ship between them ; and he had taken her hand in 
his to draw her nearer to him. 

Now, what was there in all this to turn her sick 
even to faintness ? To fill her with terror and dis- 
gust ? To make her fling his hands off and rush from 
the room ? 

She could not tell. She said to herself that she had 
behaved very rudely, harshly, unkindly ! Whatever 
her guardian had meant by his strange behavior, he had 
meant no evil. How could he mean evil ? No, he had 
meant none ; of that she felt quite sure all the time. 
And yet she had rushed rudely away from him, and 
hurt him who had never meant anything other than 
good to her, and she felt very sorry for her own con- 
duct. 

“ I am too impulsive. Uncle always told me I was too 
impulsive. Even the mother-superior of the Sacred 
Heart Convent school used to tell me that unless I 
watched and prayed I would some day commit some 
fatal error on an impulse that might ruin my life. Yes, 
I am too impulsive. I must learn self-control, and not 


144 


Gloria, 


worry others because I cannot understand them. I 
have hurt my good uncle, who means me nothing but 
good, and I must try to make amends to him,” she said 
to herself. 

But — she called him her “ good uncle,” and not her 
‘‘^^^-ar Marcel,” and even in her tender compunction 
she felt a latent misgiving, a vague fear of some wrong 
or woe into which this sweet penitence might lead her. 

“ If I only had a mother,” she sighed» 

Meanwhile, in the library, Marcel de Crespigney held 
an interview with himself full of bitter self-reproach 
and lamentations. 

“ I have alarmed and repelled her by too sudden an 
approach. And yet I thought that six months of the 
close companionship and easy intercourse of travel, 
together with the affection and confidence she has 
always shown to me, had prepared the way to a nearer 
and dearer union ! But I have been too impatient, too 
hasty, too importunate. I should have approached her 
gradually, gently. I should have remembered that she 
is not quite like other girls. She is very delicate, 
dainty, refined, sensitive — yea, a very mimosa, that 
shrinks and trembles at a rude breath or touch. I must 
be patient, very patient for weeks, for months, if I hope 
to win her hand.” 



CHAPTER XI. 

TERROR 

“ No more t I’ll hear no more ! Begone and leave me !” 

“ Not hear me? By my sufferings but you shall !” 

Otway. 

« 

Gloria remained in her own room until the dinner- 
bell rang. 

Then she arose, hastily arranged her dress, glanced 
into the mirror to be sure that all traces of the morn- 
ing’s stormy emotion had passed away from her face at 
least, however it might still trouble hen spirit or influ- 
ence her conduct, and finally she went down stairs and 
into the dining-room. 

There she found Colonel de Crespigney looking even 
paler than usual. He fixed his large, dark, dreamy 
eyes upon her, not offensively now, but with a mourn- 
fully appealing gaze, that went to her heart, as he 
gently took her hand and murmured : 

I am very unhappy, Gloria. I frightened y'ou this 
morning, dear. I do not know how I did it. I did not 
mean to do it ; and I beg your pardon, my child.” 

Oh, uncle, dear, do not say that. It was I, myself, 
who was so rude and absurd. I do not know why I was 
so. I never meant to be. I hope you will forgive mef 
she answered, speaking from the pity of her heart. 


146 


Gloria, 


Then with an instantaneous re-action of fear that fell 
like a blow upon her consciousness, she regretted her 
tenderness, and wished that she had not spoken so 
warmly. 

He — ah ! he only heard her gracious words, only saw 
her sweet smile ; he could not perceive the changing, 
shrinking spirit. He beamed on her with a look that 
made her shiver, as he drew her hand within his arm 
and led to the table with old-time princely courtesy, 
and then took his own seat. 

Laban had just placed the soup on the table, and now 
stood behind his master’s chair to wait. 

While the servant remained present, there was no 
more conversation between the guardian and the ward 
than the etiquette of the dinner hour required. 

But when the man had removed the cloth and placed 
the fruits, cake and coffee on the table and had left the 
room, and the uncle and niece were alone together, 
though the feelings of each towards the other were of 
the kindliest nature, yet there fell a certain painful con- 
straint on their intercourse, such as had never existed 
in all their past lives, but such as could never quite 
pass away in all their future days. 

How was this ? 

For weeks Marcel de Crespigney had rendered his 
youthful ward very uneasy by his manner toward her. 
On that morning he had frightened her from her self- 
possession, and she had rushed from him in terror. 
Later and cooler reflection had convinced her that she 
had really no actual cause for offence or fear. And 
when he had made his humble apology, her heart had 
been so touched that she had more than forgiven him, 
she had spoken tenderly to him, and she had taken all 


Terror. 


H7 


the blame upon herself. Then, with strange misgivings 
of wrong and woe, she had regretted her graciousness, 
and when he beamed on her with a look of love and 
joy, she had shrunk up into reserve and cautiousness. 

She became possessed of that 

“ Surly fear and cold disgust. 

Wonderful and most unjust," 

which she could neither comprehend nor conquer ; for 
which she often blamed herself ; but which now held 
her tongue-tied and downcast in the presence of her 
guardian. 

He, on his own part, quick to perceive her state, felt 
that he had again lost her confidence and filled her with 
fear ; and he also grew reticent in looks and speech, and 
consequently depressed and mournful. 

She gave him a cup of coffee, without a word. 

He took it with a silent bow. 

Both were relieved when, at the end of the ceremony, 
they were free to leave the dining-room. 

She was the first to rise from the table. He followed 
her, opened the door, and held it until she had passed 
out. 

In the hall Gloria paused with indecision as to her next 
step. 

She had always been accustomed, since her return 
home, to go into the drawing-room, sit down at the 
grand piano and play some of Marcel de Crespigney’s 
favorite music, and, later in the evening, just before 
retiring, to sing some of his best-loved songs. 

Now she stood for a moment in doubt. Her vague 
uneasiness made her wish for the privacy and safety of 


148 


Gloria. 


her own chamber. Her benevolence made her unwill- 
ing to wound her guardian’s feelings by any such 
avoidance of his company. 

Only for a moment she hesitated, and then she led the 
way to the drawing-room, followed by Colonel de Cres- 
pigney. 

She played and sang for him all the evening as usual, 
and on bidding him good-night, gave him her hand to 
kiss, as before. 

He merely touched it with his lips, and dropped it 
without a word . 

Gloria went to her room and retired to bed ; but it 
was long before she could compose herself to sleep, and 
when she did so her slumbers were troubled with evil 
dreams that kept her tossing and starting all night. 

Only towards morning she slept soundly — so soundly 
that she was first awakened by the ringing of the break- 
fast-bell. 

She arose in haste and dressed herself, and went 
down to the breakfast-room, where she found her 
guardian pacing to and fro, waiting for her. 

“ Good-morning, uncle dear,” she said, holding out 
her hand. 

“ ‘ Uncle ’ and always ‘ uncle,’ ” he sighed, in a tone 
of reproach, as he held her hand and sought to meet 
her eyes. “ I am not your uncle. I do not like the 
name. I have told you so, my dear. And yet it is 
‘ uncle,’ and always ‘ uncle.’ ” 

“ Yes, it is, and must be ‘ uncle,’ and always ‘uncle,’ 
and nothing but ‘ uncle ’ from me to you, uncle, dear,” 
she answered persistently, though in a trembling tone, 
keeping her eyes fixed upon the floor lest they should 
encounter his gaze — for the gaze of those large, dark. 


Terror, 


149 


dreamy, mournful orbs was beginning to have a terror 
and fascination of the serpent or the devil for her. 

“ You have not forgiven me yet, Gloria,” he answered. 

“ Indeed I have,” she replied, moving quickly to her 
place at the head of the table and touching the call-bell 
to bring in Laban with the coffee pot. 

Breakfast passed off very much as the dinner of the 
preceding day had done, in mutual constraint. 

When it was over, and both left the' table. Colonel de 
Crespigney passed into his library, where he usually 
spent his mornings. 

It had been Gloria’s unvarying custom to follow him 
thither with her needlework and sit sewing in her little, 
low chair, while he read or wrote at the table. 

Now, however, she could not bear to reenter the place 
of the previous day’s terror. She took her garden hat 
and shawl from -the hall rack and put them on. 

“ Where are you going, my dear ?” inquired the 
colonel. 

“ For a little, solitary walk. I wish to be alone^ and 1 
need more air and exercise than I can get here. The 
day is so beautiful, too, that I must improve it. There 
are so few fine days left at this season of the year,” she 
answered, as she drew on her gloves. 

The colonel hesitated. He would rather have joined 
her ; but her emphatic declaration that she wished a 
solitary walk, forbade him to force his unwelcome com- 
pany upon her. 

“ Good-morning, uncle, dear ; I shall return before 
lunch,” she said, as she left the house. 

He watched her until she closed the front door behind 
her, and then he sighed and turned sadly to his 3tudy 
and shut himself in, 


Gloria, 


150 


Gloria stood on the new portico above the new terrace 
and looked all over the renovated domain. Terrace 
below terrace, the ground fell from the house down to 
the park wall. Below that, encircling and enclosing 
the round of the end, arose the high, strong, gray sea 
wall, shutting out the sight of the beach. It was so 
solid that the only egress in that direction was through 
the little, substantial stone boat-house that was built 
against it, and whose strong, iron-bound oak doors, both 
landword and seaward, were kept locked. 

The only means of leaving the promontory was by 
water through the boat-house when the doors happened 
to be unlocked, or by land across the Rogue’s Neck, 
when the tide was low. 

“ Really, now that the sea wall is rebuilt, the place is 
more like a pen^entiary than ever,” said Gloria to her- 
self, as she walked away from the house. 

She wanted to get off the promontory, to take a 
longer walk than she could get within its limits, so she 
resolved to leave it by way of Rogue’s Neck and indulge 
in a ramble through the wintry woods on the main. 

It was a really splendid day within about a week of 
the Christmas holidays. No snow had fallen yet, nor 
were the trees of that latitude stripped of the glorious 
autumnal regalia. Enough bright leaves had fallen to 
carpet the ground with a carpet more brilliant than the 
looms of Axminster or Brussels ever wove ; but not 
enough to be missed from the royal robes of the forest. 
The glorious beauty of the autumn woods seen across 
the water, so attracted the young girl that she walked 
swiftly on towards Rogue’s Neck, never thinking 
whether it were high or low tide, only anxious to cross 
over and plunge into the depths of the grand forest. 


Terror. 


151 


But when she came in sight of the Neck she found, to 
her disappointment, that the waves were dashing wildly 
over the whole length and breadth of it. It was high 
tide, and it would be six hours before the road would 
be passable again. 

She turned away and — met David, the young fisher- 
man, face to face ! 

Her disappointment was forgotten in an instant. 
Her eyes danced with joy. Here was some one, at 
least, of whom she was not afraid — in whom she could 
perfectly confide — who would never terrify, humiliate, 
or in any way wound her. 

“ Oh ! David Lindsay, I am so glad to see you !” she 
said, frankly, holding out her hand to him. 

He took it, bowed, and dropped it, all in silence. 

“ Oh ! David Lindsay, why haven’t you come to see 
your old playmate all this time ? I have been home 
nearly three months, and you have not been to see me 
once^ not once. You promised to come the day after my 
arrival to take me to see your grandmother. Well, I 
know it rained that day, and for a week afterwards, and 
you didn’t come because you knew I could not go out 
in such weather. But there has been very fine weather 
since then, yet you have never come to see your old 
playmate, never once — and such friends as we used to 
be ! I take it very unkind of you, David Lindsay, that 
I do !” she said, with an air of injury that she really 
felt. 

“ Miss de la Vera,” gravely replied the young man, 
as scon as the cessation of her scolding little tongue gave 
him the chance, “ I have been to see you many times 
within the last three months, but you have always 
been denied to me.” 


152 


Gloria, 


“ Eh !” exclaimed Gloria, opening her eyes wide with 
incredulous astonishment. 

“ I beg to repeat that I have come many times to pay 
my respects, but have always been denied the privi- 
lege.” 

“ Now, who has dared to do that ? Who has dared to 
profane my freedom in that manner ? David Lindsay, I 
never knew of your coming or I would have seen you. 
Now tell me all about it,” she exclaimed, her eyes spark- 
ling, and her cheeks burning with the sense of wrong 
and outrage, as she turned about to continue her walk. 
He also turned and went beside her, as he answered : 

Miss de la Vera, the morning after your arrival 
home I came up to the hall, not by appointment, not to 
take you to Sandy Isle, for I knew you could not go in 
such a storm, but to ask you to fix another day when I 
might have the honor of serving you. I was met by 
Colonel de Crespigney, to whom I made known my 
errand. He told me that the weather would not per- 
mit Miss de la Vera to go out that day, nor was it likely 
that it would be any more favorable for a week to come, 
and when, in fact, it should be so, and when his ward 
should desire to make a visit, he would himself escort 
her. His manner told me that my visit was uncalled 
for, unwelcome, and improper. I bowed very low, and 
left him.” 

“ He never told me that you had been here. I blamed 
you for neglect. And it is all his fault. Oh ! I am glad 
I met you, David Lindsay ! Tell me more ! You came 
again ?” 

‘‘ Yes, many times. Miss de la Vera, but I was always 
met by Colonel de Crespigney, who told me that you 
were occupied and could not see me.” 


Terror, 


153 


“ But in the first place, you must have seen one of the 
servants. Did you then ask for me, or for the colonel ?" 

“ For you^ Miss de la Vera. I always asked the ser- 
vant I happened to see to take my respectful message 
to yourself, that I waited on you, according to your 
orders. And always Colonel de Crespigney came out 
and told me that you were engaged, or words to the 
same effect, and so dismissed me, showing by his man- 
ner that he considered my call impertinent. Yet, as he 
did not actually forbid me to come again, and as I con- 
sidered that I was acting under your orders, I continued 
to come once or twice a week. I was on my way to the 
house when we met.” 

“ Oh r burst forth Gloria, with one of her irrepressi- 
ble impulses. “ I think it was most outrageous for any 
one to interfere with my liberty of action in that way ! 
I will never submit to such control ! Never ! It was 
the farthest thing from my dear father’s thoughts that 
my will should be so hampered ! He made every pro- 
vision for my freedom and happiness !” 

“ Miss de la Vera,” said the young man, speaking con- 
scientiously and generously. “ I think your guardian 
acted for the best. He had the right to deny any visitor 
to you whom he disapproved of for any reason. My 
grandmother said so when I told her of my failure. And 
she always said, besides, that Colonel de Crespigney was 
the most indulgent guardian that she ever heard of, and 
that you had more freedom, even when a child, than any 
young lady she* ever knew, having your own way in 
almost everything. And you know my old grandmother 
is a wise and good woman.” 

Yes, I know she is, and I honor her, and I love he'r 
dearly, and that is the reason why I wanted so much to 


154 


Gloria. 


go to see her, and asked yoii to come and row me over 
in the boat. And to think you came so often and I did 
not know it. Oh-h r 

“ Perhaps I ought not to have persisted in coming. 
Perhaps I ought to have taken a hint from the colonel’s 
manner, and stayed away after my first repulse,” said 
the young fisherman. 

“ No, you ought not^ David Lindsay. You ought to 
have minded me rather than him !” said the little auto- 
crat. 

Then I ought not to have told you of my repeated 
rebuffs to stir up angry feelings in your bosom.” 

“ Now, how could you help it with such a catechiser 
as I am ? You could not tell a falsehood by saying that 
you had not been there, and you could not act a falsehood 
by keeping silence.” 

“True ; but I beg you to be just to your guardian, 
Miss de la Vera.” 

“ Oh, David Lindsay, do you be just to yourself. Is 
your boat here ?” 

“ Yes, Miss. It is near this end of the Neck. I can- 
not land at the old fishing landing now, because of the 
new sea wall and the locked boat-house blocking off all 
from the beach in that direction.” 

“ I understand. The place is more like a prison than 
ever. Well, David Lindsay, please to walk up with me 
to the house. I have a parcel there for Granny Lindsay 
which I want you to help me to carry to the boat ; for I 
am going to Sandy Isle to see her this morning,” said 
the young lady, in a tone of decision that admitted of no 
reply. 

So the young fisherman walked obediently by her 
side until they reached the hall. 


Terror. 


155 


Gloria opened the front door, which, in that safe 
seclusion, was never locked in the daytime, and invited 
the young man to follow her in. 

“ Sit here in the hall, David Lindsay, while I run up 
to my room and get my parcel,” she said, pointing to a 
chair. 

At that moment the study door opened on the right, 
and Colonel de Crespigney came out and looked about 
as if to see what was the matter. Of course, his eyes 
fell at once upon the form of the young fisherman just 
seated in the chair. 

“ David Lindsay is here, at my request, to take me to 
Sandy Isle to see Dame Lindsay,” said Gloria, pausing, 
with her hand upon the lowest post of the banisters, 
and her foot upon the lowest step of the stairs. 

“ Oh !” replied the colonel, not very graciously, as he 
looked slowly from the girl to the young man. 

Gloria paused as if inviting or defying him to any con- 
tro versy on the subject ; but he never said another word, 
and after a minute’s delay went back into his study and 
shut the door. 

Gloria flew up stairs to her chamber, and in a few 
moments came down with two parcels in her hand. 

“ I have made my bundle into two, you see ; one for 
you to carry and one for me,” she said, as she handed 
him the larger one ; and perhaps she could not have 
explained, even to herself, the subtle delicacy of feeling 
that induced her to do this, so as not to seem to treat 
her old playmate as a servant or a porter, to carry all 
her luggage. 

David wished to take both, but her peremptory deci- 
sion prevented him. 

Just as they were starting to go. Colonel de Crespigney 


Gloria, 


156 


emerged from his study, cloaked and gloved. He took 
his hat from the rack, saying pleasantly : 

“ I hope you will permit me to make a third in this 
party, my dear. I should like to go." 

Gloria was dumbfounded with astonishment. Besides, 
what could she say in opposition to so reasonable a pro- 
posal ? She could say nothing. 

The three walked out together. Colonel de Crespigney 
taking the little parcel from his ward's hand and carry- 
ing it himself. 

She made no objection to this. She rather liked it, 
because David Lindsay was also carrying a bundle. 

“ What are the contents of these parcels, if I may 
inquire, my dear T asked her guardian. 

“ Presents for my ^^^-ar Granny Lindsay that I 
brought all the way from Edinboro’, but have not had 
the opportunity of taking to her before,' because David 
Lindsay, whom I requested to come and row me over to 
the isle, was always denied me when he came to the 
house," answered Gloria, ruthlessly. 

“ Ah !" said her guardian ; but he offered no explan- 
ation. 

David led the way to his boat, and assisted the lady 
and gentleman to enter it. He made them comfortable 
on the seats, and then taking both oars, rowed vigorously 
and rapidly for the little sand-hill. 

In a very few moments they touched the beach, and 
the young boatman secured the boat and assisted the 
passengers to land. 

“ Now," said Gloria, addressing her two companions, 
as her queenly eyes traveled slowly from one to the 
other, “ you two will please to bring my bundles as far 
as the door of the house, but no farther. I want you, if 


Te7'ror, 


157 


you please, then to return to the boat and wait for me ; 
for I want my dee-ox Granny Lindsay all to myself 
to-day.” 

“Very well, little despot ; you shall be obeyed,” said 
Colonel de Crespigney, answering for both, as they led 
the way to the dame’s cottage, followed by the young 
girl. 

The day was cold, though clear, so the cottage door 
was closed. 

“ Here, now, leave the bundles, and go your way. I 
will join you in the boat, in half an hour,” said Gloria. 

Her two servants set down their burdens where they 
were told to put them, and went where they were 
ordered to go. 

Gloria watched them — not out of sight, for that she 
could not, on the tiny islet, where, from the rocky 
centre to the sandy circumference, everything was dis- 
tinctly visible#; but she watched them go down to the 
beach and begin to walk around it, before she knocked 
at the cottage door. 

“ I wonder if uncle will say anything to David Lind- 
say ? I hope he will not, for it was I who brought him 
to the house this time,” she said to herself, as she 
knocked again, for her first summons had not been 
answered. Now, however, the door opened, and Dame 
Lindsay appeared, smiling kindly, as of old, though 
looking rather feebler and more infirm than Gloria had 
ever seen her. 

“ Ah, young lady, is it ’ee self at last come to see the 
old ’oman ? I knew 'ee would sooner or later ! Come 
in, dearie. Eh ! then, what is all this ? and where is 
David, that he has not brought them for ’ee ?” she said, 
on espying the parcels. 


158 


Gloria. 


“ Oh, Granny Lindsay, he did bring them for me, he 
and uncle ; but I would not let them stop. I sent them 
back to the boat, because I wanted to have you all to 
myself,” said Gloria, as she picked up one bundle, while 
the old woman took the other, and they entered the 
house together. 

“Now sit ’ee down, and take off 'ee things, dearie,” 
said the dame, as she placed a chair. 

“ I will sit down, dear Granny Lindsay, but not take off 
my hat this time, because uncle would come, and his doing 
so has prevented me from spending the day with you as 
I wished so much to do ; for, oh ! I remember what 
happy, happy days I used to have here with you and 
David ! And nothing is changed here ! Nothing, 
nothing ! The very chest of drawers and table and 
chairs sit in the very places where they used to sit in 
the sweet old time.” 

“ Why, dearie, everything sits where it must sit. In a 
room like this everything is put into the place where 
it fits best, and there it has to stay. There is no room 
for alterations, dearie.” 

“Well, I like to see it as it used to be. Now, dear 
Granny Lindsay, I must tell you^that I wanted to come 
to see you the day after my arrival home ; but it was 
raining that day and for a week afterwards, and when it 
cleared off and David Lindsay so kindly came to fetch 
me, he was told that I was engaged. Well, I mighth.Q.Ye 
been doing something, and probably was, but it was 
nothing that I would not have willingly dropped for the 
sake of coming to see you, if I had only been told that 
David Lindsay had come for me ; but I was not told — 
I was never told. I should never have known if I had 
not riiet him by chance this morning.” 


Terror, 


159 


“ I know, I know, dearie, David told me. It was 'ee 
good guardian’s prudence, dearie, as I explained to 
David. ’Ee must, mind ’ee guardian, dearie, and be 
guided and governed by him until 'ee comes of a proper 
age, little lady, and all the more must ’ee submit ’eeself 
to him who stands in a father’s place, because ’ee has 
no mother, deerie,” said the dame, speaking conscien- 
tiously and affectionately. 

^‘Ah,” thought the poor girl, “if she knew how he 
frightens and distresses me, she would not say that ! I 
wonder if I could tell her ? No, because I could not 
explain ! How could I explain ? There is nothing to 
explain.” 

With a sigh Gloria turned from her perplexed thoughts 
to the pleasant task before her. 

She lifted both bundles from the floor to the table. 
She untied and opened one, and displayed a large double 
shawl of a fine black and white check, saying : 

“ Now dee-?ir Granny Lindsay, I know you love old 
Scotland, where your forefathers came from, and you 
would like any good thing that came from Scotland. 
Now, I brought this ft^om Edinboro’ for you.” 

“ Did ’ee, dearie ? How beautiful it is ! How lovely 
and soft, and large, and ^warm it is ! How kind and 
thoughtful it was of ’ee to bring it to the old woman ! 
But that is nothing new. ’Ee was always good, my 
dearie. Now, I’ll tell ’ee how much I needed just such 
a shawl. My old gray woolen one is worn quite thin 
and threadbare. So ’ee sees how much good ’ee has 
done me, dearie.” 

“ Oh, Granny Lindsay, I feel so grateful to you for 
liking it so much. And look here — oh, I hope you will 
like these, too !” said the young girl, as she unrolled the 


i6o 


Gloria. 


other bundle and displayed a dress of shepherd’s cloth 
of a deep blue shade, and two woven underskirts of thick 
red flannel. 

Oh, dearie ! What can I say to ’ee now for all ’ee 
gracious gifts? What? The old woman is almost 
dumb-struck, dearie, but her heart is full,” said the 
dame, in a voice very low, and trembling with the emo- 
tion that filled her aged eyes with tears. 

“ Do you like them ? Will they make you more com- 
fortable ? Oh, I am so glad !” 

“ And here is something I got for David Lindsay. It 
is only a dozen Scotch linen pocket-handkerchiefs ; but 
I have worked his name in the comers with my hair. 
Will you give them to him from his old playmate ?” 

“ Yes, dearie, surely, if ’ee wishes it,” replied the 
dame, in a subdued and broken voice, for she could now 
refuse nothing to the affectionate girl who had remem- 
bered her, even in a foreign country, and brought home 
comforts for her age. 

“ And now, dee-ox Granny Lindsay, I must leave you. 
My half hour is up.” 

“ I wish ’ee could stay all day, dearie.” 

“ So do I ; I meant to stay, but — but my guardian 
came with me and spoiled all my plans.” 

“ ’ Ee gardeen means ’ee well, dearie. ’Ee mus’n’t 
rebel against his just authority.” 

“ Good-by, dee-ox Granny Lindsay.” 

“ Good-by, since ’ee must go. The good Lord keep 
’ee, dearie.” 

And so Gloria left the cottage, and walked rapidly 
down to the boat, where she found her guardian and 
the young fisherman waiting for her. 

She entered and seated herself in the stern 


Terror, 


i6i 


Divid Lindsay took up the oars and rowed quickly 
to the boat-house, which they reached in a few minutes. 

Colonel de Crespigney handed his ward to the steps, 
and with a cool — “Thanks. Good-day,” to the young 
boatman, led her up the stairs and through to the 
other side of the wall. 

“ I wish, uncle dear, that you would leave the key in 
the lock always. It makes the place feel like a prison 
to have the boat-house, which is the only gateway 
and passage through the sea-wall, locked up all the 
time.” 

“ I will do anything you wish, my dear Gloria. You 
have only to make your will known and it shall be 
obeyed,” replied the colonel. 

“ I thank you, dear uncle. And since you are so 
kind, will you give orders that in future, whenever 
David Lindsay comes to take me to see my dee-2,T: old 
friend on the islet, I may promptly be informed of his 
presence ?” inquired Gloria, with a grave earnestness 
that was more like a gracious command than a request. 

“ My dearest, yes ! even that, if you make a point 
of it.” 

“ I do make a point of it.” 

“ I sent the young man away, I should explain, 
because I wished you quietly rid of him.” 

“ Rid of David Lindsay, uncle ! Why should I be rid 
of him ?” 

“ Gloria, I appreciate your need of a mother’s guid- 
ance ; but — is it possible that you have no intuitions to 
direct you ?” gravely and sadly inquired the colonel. 

“ If by //^-tuitions, uncle, you mean inward teachings, 
yes, I have them ; they are, perhaps, the best, if not 


i 62 


Gloria, 


the only instructions I have ; and from them I learn to 
understand, respect, and trust him — David Lindsay — 
more than I can any other human being, except, per- 
haps, his grandmother and — yourself.” 

‘‘ His grandmother and myself ! Thank you, my 
dear,” said the colonel, wincing. 

Gloria laughed. She very seldom laughed, but when 
she did the silver cadence of her laughter was like the 
shiver of silver bells, a delight to hear. 

“ Oh !” she exclaimed, “ I beg your pardon, uncle ! I 
should have said the Emperor Napoleon and yourself ; 
only, unfortunately, I am not intimate enough with his 
imperial majesty to know whether I respect him or not.” 

“ Nonsense, Gloria. Be serious, my child. You may 
respect this young man, who has grown up on the 
estate ; you may understand and respect him in his 
proper place ^ as much as you please ; but if you make a 
companion of him, who is to understand you ? — not to 
ask, who is to respect you, my dear ?” 

“ Uncle !” exclaimed Gloria, flushing to the very 
edges of her radiant hair. Uncle ! Is it making a 
companion of David Lindsay to have him row me in a 
boat where I wish to go ?” 

“Yes, Gloria, decidedly so, when the boat is his own 
and he takes you to his own home.” 

“ How dreadfully you put the case, uncle !” exclaimed 
the girl, crimson with humiliation. 

“ I put it truly, dear Gloria,” answered the colonel, 
pursuing his advantage unsparingly. “ T put it truly. 
You will injure yourself irreparably by such eccentric 
unconventionality. My poor child, it is your mother who 
should instruct you in all these matters, not a profane 
heathen of a man ; only unfortunately you have no 


Terror, 


i6 


mother, and so you must even be guided by so poor 
a counsellor as myself.” 

“ I do not see what harm can come of my going to 
see Dame Lindsay in her grandson’s boat.” 

“ No, you do not see ; but others will^ my child, and 
they will criticise you. Objectionable attachments 
have been formed and improper marriages contracted 
before now between ladies of rank and men of low 
degree, and you — ” 

“ Sir ! I PROTEST against this talk !” she indignantly 
interrupted. “ To whom do your remarks point ? To 
me ? To David Lindsay ? Do you dare to suppose. 
Colonel de Crespigney, that I should ever dream — 
that he would ever think of — oh ^ what an odious 
thought is in your mind ! Never do you dare^ sir, to 
hint such a thing to me again !” 

“ I hope never to have the occasion, my dear,” coolly 
replied the colonel. 

“ Detestable, revolting, abhorrent, odious ! Oh I that 
you should dare to hint such a humiliation to me ! I 
can never forgive you for it, Colonel de Crespigney ! I 
feel more, much more than offended ! I feel insulted, 
dishonored, humiliated ! I do T cried Gloria, vehe- 
mently. 

But in all her indignation there was no scorn of David 
Lindsay, or of his humble calling ; for in her innocent 
and loyal way she loved and respected her old playmate, 
even as she did his aged relative on the islet. It was 
the hypothesis of “ an objectionable attachment ” and 
“ an improper marriage ” at which she revolted. And 
if, instead of a poor, uncultivated young fisherman, the 
most accomplished prince on earth had been in ques- 
tion. she would have felt equally offended. 


64 


Gloria. 


They had now reached the steps leading up to the 
portico of the front door. 

Colonel de Crespigney paused there, and with his 
hand resting on one of the iron posts, he inquired : 

“ Well, shall I give the orders you requested me to 
issue ? Shall I say that the young fisherman must be 
admitted to your presence whenever he may come here 
and ask to see you ?” 

“ No ! On your soul !” impetuously answered the 
girl. “ No ! You have killed David Liifdsay ! You 
have murdered the harmless playmate of my happy 
childhood ! I shall never, never see him more I He is 
dead and buried !” 

^ Requiescat iri pace^ replied the colonel solemnly, 
lifting his hat. 

Gloria passed him, opened the front door, and fied up 
into the safety of her room. 

Her intuitions ” warned the motherless child to 
avoid a tete-d-tete with Colonel de Crespigney. 




CHAPTER XII. 

HOPELESS LOVE. 

He deemed that time, he deemed that pride 
Had quenched, at length, his boyish flame. 

Nor knew, till seated by her side. 

His heart in all save hope the same. 

Byron. 

Meanwhile David Lindsay had returned to his grand- 
mother’s cottage, his soul filled with the image of the 
lovely girl he had just landed on the promontory. 

“ I shall go mad if it continues much longer,” he 
groaned. “Yes, it will craze me! If I could only 
escape and fly to new places and scenes that would not 
remind me of her so constantly, so bitterly ! But I 
cannot leave my grandmother, who has no one but me. 
I must stay, though I am bound to the rack. I must 
see my angel and not open my lips in adoration ! I 
must suffer and not utter a cry ! Why, it would insult 
her to tell her I love her ! And yet in our innocent 
childhood she has set by me hours reading out of the 
same books. She kindled a soul under the poor fisher 
lad’s rough bosom ! — a soul to love and to suffer the 
anguish of a lost Heaven in the loss of her. Oh, my 
little angel, did you know what you were doing? Oh, 



Gloria, 


i66 . 


my little angel, my little angel, who am / that I should 
dare to love you ? A poor, rude fisherman, to whom 
you came as a messenger from heaven to inspire him 
with intelligent life, with a soul to love and suffer. 
Oh ! my darling, you fill my life ! You are my life ! I 
see your bright face shining in the darkness of my room 
at night. 1 hear your sweet voice ringing in the 
silence ! What shall I do ? Ah, Heaven, what shall I 
do ? If I could ship on one of these schooners that touch 
here sometimes, and if I could go to new scenes where 
I should never meet her again, I might conquer this 
madness. But that is impossible at present. I must 
not fly from duty. I must stay here and meet 
whatever fate may have in store for me, and that is 
insanity or death, I think. Oh ! I fear, I fear that I 
shall go mad some day, and in my madness tell her 
how I love her ! And then — the deluge !” 

So absorbed was the poor lad’s soul in his love and 
his woe, that it was a purely mechanical and unconscious 
work to row back to the islet, secure his boat, and 
walk up to the cot. 

He did not “ come to himself ” until he had run his 
head against the door. 

His grandmother opened it, smiled, and said : 

Come in, David, and see what the little lady has left 
here for me and for you.” 

He started and entered the cottage. 

Fortunately for him, the dim eyes of age did not 
perceive his strong emotion. 

“ Sit ’ee down, David, and look. Here are two ribbed 
flannel petticoats, such as couldn’t be got in this country 
for love nor money. And here is a navy blue shepherd’s 
cloth, and a fine large double plaid shawl. Look at ’em, 


Hopeless Love. 


167 


David, lad ! But Lor’, men don’t know anything about 
women’s wear. Well, then, look ’ee here. Here is 
your present, David — a dozen lovely, large, fine white 
linen handkerchiefs, every one of them marked with 
your full name by her own hand, and with her own 
golden hair, David — with the child’s own golden hair.” 

“ Give them me !” cried the young man, eagerly 
catching the parcel from her hand, looking around like 
some wild animal, with prey that he feared would be 
snatched from him, and then running up the narrow 
stairs that led to his own loft. 

“What’s come to the poor lad?” cried the old 
woman, gazing after him. “ The Lord defend him from 
being taken with love !” 

Meantime, David Lindsay had scrambled up into his 
own little den. 

It was a poor place, with only a leaning roof meeting 
in a peak overhead, with hardly room enough to stand 
upright, with bare walls, bare floor, and only one small 
window of four panes in front, which opened on hinges. 

It contained a rude but clean bed, covered with a blue 
and white patchwork quilt, and one chest that stood under 
the front window, and one shelf, on which stood Gloria’s 
precious books. He sat down on the chest, for there was 
no other seat, and opened his parcel of handkerchiefs, 
and examined them one by one. He saw his own 
name on each, worked in minute golden letters, formed 
of Gloria’s own radiant hair. He pressed each to his 
lips, to his heart. 

“ Oh, more precious than all the treasures of Hindos- 
tan’s mines are these to me,” he murmured — “ her own 
sacred hair, her own hallowed hands’ work ! Oh, my 
angel, my angel, no word suits you but this — ‘ angel.’ I 


i68 


Gloria, 


have this much of you, at least, and I will never part 
with it while I live — while I live — and then, afterwards, 
beyond this world, may there not be some realms of 
bliss where we may meet, as we met in guileless child- 
hood and love, without a thought of any barrier of rank 
between us !” 

This, and much more, murmured the young man to 
himself, as he pressed the hankerchief to his heart, his 
lips and burning forehead. 

But the voice of his aged relative recalled him to his 
duty. With fond superstition he folded one handker- 
chief and put it in his bosom, with her bright hair next 
his heart. The others he folded carefully and put in 
his chest. Then he went below to hew wood and fetch 
water for the needs of the little* home. 

Gloria did not meet her uncle until the dinner hour, 
when her short, impulsive resentment melted away 
before the mournful, even meek, reserve of his manner. 

After dinner she went into the drawing-room, sat 
down at the piano, and played for him as usual, until 
the hour of retiring. 

The next morning, after their breakfast, as she turned 
to go up stairs, he called to her : 

“ Gloria, my dear, will you not come into the library 
and sit with me, as usual ?” 

“ No, thanks, uncle dear. I have a letter to write to 
Aunt Agrippina.” 

Can you not write it at one of the library tables ?” 

“ I would rather go up into my room, uncle.” 

“ But why ?” 

“ Because — well — I would rather.” 

“ Are you afraid of me, Gloria ?” he inquired, very 
mournfully. 


Hopeless Love. 


169 


She hesitated for a moment, and then answered 
firmly : 

“Yes, I am." 

“ But why should you be ?" 

“ I — don’t — know," she answered. 

“ Then that is a most unjust and unreasonable fear of 
yours, for which you can assign no cause, my child." 

She looked down and made no answer, 

“ Do you not yourself think so, Gloria ?" 

“Yes, no ; I don’t know. Let me go up stairs now, 
please, uncle," she said, in growing distress. 

“ I do not hinder you, my child. You are as free as 
air. Go," he said. 

Relieved to be free, she ran up stairs ; but happen- 
ing to look down as she turned around on the landing, 
she saw him standing still, looking so lonely and miser- 
able that her heart reproached her for selfishness, if 
not for cruelty. She paused and hesitated for a 
moment, and then ran down again, and said : 

“ Uncle dear, if you want me, I will come in and sit 
with you. Of course I can write my letter just as well 
on the library-table. Do you want me ?’’ 

“ My child, I always want you. Every moment of my 
life I want you," he answered, in a low tone, as he 
opened the library for her to enter. 

She had a little rosewood writing-desk of her own. on 
one of the tables. 

He went and opened it for her, and placed a chair 
before it. 

As soon as she had seated herself, he went and sat 
down at his own reading stand, and assumed an air of 
melancholy reserve that he knew would touch her heart 
and calm her fears. 


170 


Gloria. 


“ I must be very patient and very cautious in dealing 
with my dear, my birdling, if I would ever win her to 
my bosom,” he said to himself. 

And from that day, for many days, he was very 
guarded in his manner to his sensitive ward, maintain- 
ing always a mournfully affectionate, yet somewhat 
reserved demeanor. 

Gloria was not quite reassured. Her confidence, once 
so rudely shaken, could not be quite firmly re-estab- 
lished. She continued to decline a tete-d-tete with him 
whenever she could do so without rudeness or unkind- 
ness. She walked out more than usual. The weather 
continued to be very fine for the season. 

Christmas Eve was a most glorious day. There was 
not a cloud in all the sky. The sun shone down with 
dazzling splendor from the deep blue heavens. The 
ripples of the sea flashed and sparkled like liquid sap- 
phires. The woods on the main glowed in the light. 

The scene was too tempting. 

Gloria put on her fur jacket and hood and walked 
forth to the “ Neck.” 

She found the tide at its lowest ebb, and the road to 
the main high and dry. 

She set off to walk across it. It was the first time 
she had ever done so. The “ Neck,” indeed, was a 
natural bridge of rock connecting the promontory to 
the main, and affording an excellent roadway when the 
tide was low ; but quite impassable, being at least 
six feet under water when the tide was high. 

It was very low now, and the path was very clear. 

Gloria walked on, so inspired by the glory and gladness 
of the sun, the sky, the sea, the' woods, that her spirits 
oared like a bird, and like a bird broke forth in song. 



GLORIA PLUNGED INTO THE DEPTH OF THE FOREST, AND REVELED IN THE 
DELIGHTFUL SOLITUDE. - .See Page 171 . 






Hopeless Love. 


171 


She sang as she walked. The way was long, but joy- 
ous with light and beauty, even though the season was 
near mid-winter. 

At length she reached the main and bent her step to 
the gorgeous woods, still wearing their regal autumn 
dress. 

Gloria plunged into their depths and rambled and 
reveled in their delightful solitudes. The song birds 
had flown farther south, yet the air seemed full of jubi- 
lant music. Was it in the air, or in her own spirit ? 
She could not tell. She was so gay and glad ! She 
wandered on and on, tempted by vistas of crimson, 
golden, and purple avenues, more graceful in form than 
classic arches. 

At length she spied, at some distance off, in the deep- 
est depths of the forest, a scene like a conflagation — a 
cluster of trees burning, glowing and sparkling like fire 
in the rays of the sun that struck down upon their 
tops. 

Fascinated by the vision, she made her way toward 
it, and found a clump of holly trees, thick with bright 
scarlet berries. 

“ Oh, I must have some of these to decorate the house 
to-night,” she said, as she began to pull those that were 
in her reach. But when she had plucked all that hung 
low, she found that she had not enough for her pur- 
pose. 

“ I cannot get any more, so I had better take these 
home and come back again and bring Laban to climb 
the trees for me, and get enough from the top branches.” 

With this resolve she turned and retraced her steps, 
but soon lost herself in the pathless woods, and wan- 
dered about for hours trying to find her way out of 


172 


Gloria, 


them. She had no fear whatever. She was sure that 
she should emerge safely some time or other. She only 
felt some little haste to get home time enough to bring 
Laban back for the holly. 

At length her confidence was justified. She caught 
a glimpse of the sea through a thinner growth of the 
woods, and walking toward it, soon came out on the 
bank above the “ Neck.” She descended quickly, and 
began to cross. 

No one in that neighborhood would have ventured to 
go over the “ Neck ” at such a time. It was in pure 
ignorance that Gloria did it. 

She did not even notice how much the Neck had 
narrowed since she crossed it four hours before, when 
the tide was at its lowest ebb, and was even then turn- 
ing. It had been coming in ever since, and now there 
was but about four feet width of the road left in the 
middle of the Neck — abundant space for a foot-path if 
it should not narrow too rapidly. 

Gloria had not a thought of danger when she set out 
to recross the Neck. 

She walked on, singing as she went, and if a wave 
higher than usual dashed quite across her path, why, it 
fell back immediately, only wetting her shoes and skirts 
a little. 

She went on, singing, while the glad waves danced up 
each side her road, coming nearer and nearer, narrow- 
ing her path. 

Still she went on, singing, having to stop sometimes 
when her path would be entirely covered by a rising 
wave, and wait till it had fallen back. 

Then again she went on, singing, ever singing, until 
she reached a spot about midway between the main and 


Hopeless Love. 


173 


the promontory, when a wave, higher and stronger than 
before, struck her, staggered her, and nearly threw her 
down. Then for a moment she quailed, and ceased to 
sing. But the next instant the wave had receded and 
left a narrow path clear before her. 

Then she hurried on again, not singing now, but with 
an awful consciousness of danger upon her ; an awful 
prevision of the world beyond this, which her spirit 
might reach before her body should touch the shore. 

Another higher, stronger wave came rising and roar- 
ing, and struck her down. It receded instantly, and she 
struggled to her feet, half stunned, strangled, and 
blinded. 

Soon the path was entirely under water, and she had 
to wade in half knee deep, and with that prevision, 
awful, holy, sweet, of being on the threshold of the other 
life. 

“ Mother, mother, if I must go, if I must go, come and 
meet me. I’m afraid, oh, I’m afraid of the great dark !” 
was her mute prayer, as another grand wave, howling 
like some furious beast of prey, reared itself above and 
threw her down. 

Once more, as it fell back howling, she struggled up 
to her feet, more stunned, strangled, blinded, and dazed 
than before, and toiling for dear life, waded on knee- 
deep in water. Her limbs were failing, her head was 
dizzy, her senses were leaving her. 

“ I must go — I am going. Oh, Lord Jesus ! Thou 
who art ‘ the Resurrection and the Life,’ raise me ! save 
me !” she breathed, in a strange half trance, in which 
she saw the heavens opened. 

And at that moment the last wave struck her down, 
seized her and whirled her away. 



CHAPTER XIII. 

ON A STRANGE BED. 

Will she again, 

From that death-like repose, 

When those sealed eyes unclose. 

Awake to pain ? Anon. 

It was late in the afternoon of the same day that saw 
Gloria de la Vera swept away by the tide. 

In the cosy cottage on the sandy islet, old Dame Lind- 
say sat over the bright, open wood fire, knitting busily ; 
the tea-kettle hung over the blaze, singing merrily ; the 
covered “ spider ” sat upon the hearth, emitting a spicy 
odor of baking gingerbread ; the black pussy ” was 
coiled up in one corner, and the white puppy in the 
other. 

The tea-table stood in the middle of the floor, set for 
two persons, gay with the best cups and saucers on the 
bright japanned waiter, and tempting with plates full of 
delicately sliced ham and cold bread, and a pretty print 
of fresh butter. 

Dame Lindsay at length rolled up her knitting and 
laid it aside on the mantel-shelf ; took off her spectacles 
and put them in their case, and that into her pocket, 
then picked up the little iron tongs and lifted the lid 



On a Strange Bed. 


175 


from the spider to examine the progress of her cakes, 
found them doing well, and covered them again. 

Finally she went to the window and looked out across 
the sea to the shore where the wooded hills rolled back- 
ward to the western horizon, behind which the setting 
sun was dropping out of sight. 

“ Well, now, I do wonder what can keep David ? He 
promised to be back before sunset, and he never broke 
a promise nor missed an appointment before,” she said, 
as she held one hand above her eyes and scanned the 
track of waters between the main shore and the little 
landing-place on the islet. 

She watched until the sun had set, the faint after-glow 
had faded from the sky and sea, and the short winter 
twilight of the shortest days had darkened into night. 

“ Something has happened. I trust in the Lord it is 
nothing ill,” she said, as she left the window and went 
to the fireplace, and lighted the two home-dipped tallow 
candles that stood on the mantelpiece. 

She did not draw down the blue window blind ; she 
left it up, saying to herself : 

“He shall see the light of home to cheer him across 
the dark sea, poor lad.” 

She had scarcely said so much when the sound of 
hurrying footsteps smote her ears, and before she had 
time to cross the room, the door was violently pushed 
open, and David Lindsay strode into the house, bare- 
headed, with disordered hair, haggard face and starting 
eyes ; wearing nothing but a wet and frozen shirt and 
trowsers, and bearing in his arms a girl’s lifeless form, 
wrapped closely in his own great-coat. 

“ Gloria is dead ! She is dead ! I saw her drowned 
before my eyes ! I saw her drowned before I could 


176 


Gloria. 


reach her ! My darling ! My darling ! My angel ! 
Ohf rny little angel !” he groaned, as he bore her to the 
bed, laid her on it and dropped on his knees, burying 
his head beside her. 

“ Father of mercies ! how did it happen ?” cried the 
old dame, clasping her hands in anguish, as she came 
up. 

“ Oh, don’t ask me now 1 Try to recover her, try ! 
Oh, she must not ! shall not die !” exclaimed the young 
man, starting like a maniac from his kneeling posture, 
and staring around him with a wild manner, half prayer- 
ful, half defiant, wholly insane. 

“Yes, we must try ! We must never give up,” quickly 
replied Dame Lindsay, who in her long life as fisherman’s 
daughter, wife and mother, had had varied experience 
in drowned persons, resuscitated or buried. 

And fast as age and infirmities would permit, she 
scrambled up the narrow stairs that led to the loft and 
quickly drew the blankets and mattress from David’s 
bed and rolled them down to the room below. 

Then she followed them in their descent, and straight- 
ened the mattress on the floor, and laid the blankets 
over it. 

“Now lift her up, and lay her here, David, and then 
leave the room. I must take off her wet clothes, wind 
her in a warm blanket, and roll her. That I must do 
without your help,” said the dame, with a calm author- 
ity that would have compelled obedience from any one. 

But the young man indeed was so stupefied and dis- 
tracted by anguish and despair, that he was more than 
willing to be led or driven. 

Moaning and groaning in bitterest woe, he lifted the 
lifeless form and laid it on its right side on the blanket 


On a Strange Bed, 


177 


over the mattress on the floor, and then went up stairs, 
and threw himself down near the landing to pray with 
all his soul for her revival, and to listen with all his 
senses for any murmur of her returning life that might 
reach him there. 

Meanwhile the dame rolled the drowned girl over on 
her face, with her wrist bent under her forehead to 
raise it, and then leaving her so for a moment, went and 
hung a large blanket over several chairs before the fire. 
Then she removed the wet raiment from the victim, 
and laid down the hot blanket, and rolled her over and 
wrapped her in it, and rolled and rubbed until some 
good results began to appear, and her own strength to 
wane. 

Then she called to the anxious watcher above : 

“ Come down, David, and help me now. There is 
hope, my lad. There is hope !” 

“Oh, thank the Lord ! Thank the Lord ! From this 
time forth I will live to the Lord !“ exclaimed the young 
man in an earnest outburst of gratitude, too deep for 
gladness, as he hurried down the stairs. 

“ Ah ! my boy, I said there was hope^ not certainty," 
sighed the dame. 

“ If there is hope, there is certainty. If the Lord ‘ is 
not mocked,’ neither does he mock his children. I have 
prayed, oh ! how I have prayed ! And the answer is, 
there is hope ! So there is certainty !" exclaimed David 
Lindsay, as he dropped on his knees before the pros- 
trate form that lay wound in the blanket on the mat- 
tress. 

“You know what to do, David. Lay your hand 
between her shoulders and continue to move her gently 
to and fro, if you wish to save her life. When I get the 


178 


Gloria. 


bed ready we will lay her in it,” said the old woman, as 
she spread more blankets to heat before the fire. 

When they were ready she put one over the bottom 
sheet in the bed, and called her grandson to lift the pre- 
cious burden just as it was and lay it there. 

When he had obeyed her, she spread another warm 
blanket over the form, which now began to quiver 
slightly as from pain. 

“ She lives ! Oh, thank Heaven, she does live !” cried 
David. 

“ Easy, lad ! Easy ! There is more hope, but no 
certainty yet. I could not feel any pulse, as I held her 
wrist just now,” said Dame Lindsay, cautiously. 

In mad haste, David thrust his hand amid the wrap- 
pings and found and felt the delicate wrist. 

“ It beats ! It beats ! Her pulse does beat ! I can 
scarcely feel it, it is so small — but it beats !” he cried. 

“ I hope it may be so,” said the dame, who had taken 
a little brandy from a small bottle that she kept for 
emergencies and put it into a mug with some boiling 
water, sugar and spice. 

When the highly stimulating cordial was ready, she 
brought it to the bedside and looked at the face of the 
girl. 

That face had changed from its white repose to a 
look of helpless, intense suffering. 

“ You see she is recovering !” exclaimed David, 
triumphantly. 

“Yes, I see she is, poor child !” replied the dame, 
as with a small tea-spoon she tried to pass a little of 
the spiced brandy, drop by drop, between the pale 
and writhen lips. 

Much has been falsely said and written about the agony 


On a Strange Bed, 


179 


of death, when every doctor knows that death, in itse/B is 
no agony at all ; and every true Christian feels that it 
is a release from all pain, a delicious falling asleep, 
for a few hours, to awake in the glad and glorious 
surprise of the higher and better life. 

But no one who has not experienced it knows, or can 
know, the insufferable anguish of resuscitation from 
apparent death. The almost stagnant blood begin- 
ning to circulate again through nearly collapsed veins 
and arteries, inflicts tortures upon every nerve — tortures 
unheard of in the cruelest inquisition. Red-hot needles 
seem to be piercing every nerve of the body and pore 
of ’the skin. It is an agony that even the torpor of the 
brain does not overcome. And the victim writhes and 
moans with anguish, while quite unconscious of his con- 
dition or surroundings. He only feels; he knows nothing. 

As soon as the sufferer, struggling through pain back 
to life, began to breathe more freely. Dame Lindsay, 
without speaking to her, or in any way disturbing her, 
quietly administered a composing drink that soon sent 
her into a sweet, natural sleep. Then she placed bot- 
tles of hot water to her feet and between her shoul- 
ders, covered her up very warmly, and hung a clean 
quilt before the bed 'to shade her from the light of 
the fire. 

“ Now, lad, she is comfortable, and when she wakes 
up, whether to-night or to-morrow morning, she will 
be all right. She will want nourishment the very first 
thing. Fortunately, I have got that piece of beef ’ee 
brought for to-morrow’s dinner. I will cut the lean 
pieces from it and make some beef tea, and keep it by 
the fire ready for her. But now carry the mattress and 
things back up stairs and come back to ’ee supper, ’Ee 


i8o 


Gloria. 


must be hungry by this time and — Eh ? Why there 
’ee stands in ’ee wet clothes all this time, and I taking 
no notice. Go change ’em, boy ! Go change ’em this 
minute, or ’ee’ll get ’ee death of cold. Eh ! to think I 
should ’a forgot ’ee ! But the lass was so near dead ! 
Go, lad, go !” 

‘‘ Don’t be uneasy, grandmother. I don’t catch cold 
from sea water ; and now I am so fired with joy and 
gratitude that I couldn't take cold,” said the young man, 
as he cleared the floor of bedding and carried the bun- 
dle up stairs. 

Meanwhile, the dame put the supper — ^hot ginger- 
bread and all — on the table ; and by the time she Had 
finished the work, David came down in dry clothing to 
join her. 

She refrained from questioning him until he had got 
through with his evening meal, and she had cleared 
away the table. 

Then, when they were seated together before the 
cheerful fire, Dame Lindsay knitting, and occasionally 
watching the saucepan which contained the beef tea 
she had made and set to simmer on the coals, and David 
busy with a bit of bone carving in his hand, the old 
woman said : 

“ Now, lad, tell me how all this happened.” 

“ I was in the boat coming from the main when I 
happened to look towards the Rogues’ Neck, and 
there I saw some one attempting to cross. The pas- 
senger was about half way over and the tide was ris- 
ing rapidly. I knew of course, whoever it might be 
could never succeed in reaching either shore, but would 
certainly be overtaken by the tide and drowned unless 
I could reach the Neck in time for rescue.” 


On a Strange Bed. 


i8i 


“ And ’ee didn’t know it ^di^sheT' inquired the dame. 

“ No, I did not even know whether it was a man or a 
woman. I could only see that it was some one. But I 
turned and rowed as fast as I could for the Neck. 
Then I saw it was a woman, and I rowed faster than 
ever ; for the tide was so high even then that she 
could scarcely keep her feet.” 

“ Poor lass ! Go on, David.” 

I pulled on the oars as hard as I could and made the 
best speed ; I shouted to her to take courage. She did 
not seem to hear or see me ; but, oh, grandmother, 
when I got within a few yards of that spot I recognized 
her — in the same instant that I saw her whelmed oif 
and whirled away ! Indeed, for a moment, I seemed to 
have lost my senses. But soon I rallied and rowed to 
the spot where I had seen her disappear. Then I threw 
off my overcoat and jacket to be ready, and I watched 
to see her rise. I knew she would rise near the Neck, 
or be thrown upon it by the returning wave, so there I 
watched. I saw her rise at last. I threw myself into 
the sea, dived as she went down again, caught her rai- 
ment, dragged her to the surface, and drew her toward 
the boat. I had some difficulty in recovering the boat, 
and getting into it with my precious burden. She was 
quite insensible and cold, but I wrapped her in my 
jacket and overcoat, and laid her down in the bottom of 
the boat on her right side, with her breast and face 
turned downward, and her wrists bent under her fore- 
head, and I kept one of my hands between her shoul- 
ders, moving her gently from time to time— as we do to 
recover the drowned, you know — while I rowed as well 
as I could with the other hand, and so reached our land- 
ing at last. I brought her here because it was so much 


i 82 


Gloria, 


nearer than her own home. But, oh, granny, when I 
lifted her out of the boat I thought she was dead !” 

So she would have been, lad, if it hadn’t been for 
'ee care,” said the dame. 

“And have I, by the Lord’s help, saved her life? 
Are you sure she will take no fatal harm from that ice- 
cold plunge in the sea ?” inquired the young man, in a 
painful doubt, strangely inconsistent with his expressed 
confidence at a less hopeful time. 

Before replying to his question the dame went to the 
bedside and examined her patient, then she came back 
and said : 

“ Yes, lad, ’ee has certainly saved the little lady’s life. 

* She will take no harm now. She is in a sound sleep 
and a gentle perspiration. She is perfectly safe now. 
So ’ee may rest satisfied.” 

“ ‘ Satisfied,’ dear granny !” exclaimed the youth, 
with a look of radiant happiness on his face. “ ‘ Satis- 
fied ?’ Why I am overjoyed, crowned, blessed ! I 
would rather have saved her precious life than to have 
won all the wealth, fame, power and glory of this 
world !” 

“ I believe ’ee, lad ! I believe ’ee !” 

“ But, what do I say ? The glory of this world! 
Why, I would rather have saved her sacred life than 
have won Heaven !” 

“ Eh ! Stop there, lad ! ’Ee’s growing profane ! Is 
that ’ee gratitude to the Lord ? Stop at the glory of 
this world, lad, and do not compare any earthly good 
with" the heavenly blessedness,” said the dame, laying 
down her knitting and placing her spectacles high on 
her cap that she might look him straight in the face 
with her earnest blue eyes. 


On a Strange Bed, 


183 


“ I did not mean to be profane,” said David, meekly. 

The good woman resumed her work, and David took 
up his own, and they worked in silence until the hour 
for retiring drew near, when Dame Lindsay finally 
rolled up her knitting, took off her spectacles and put 
them both away, and said : 

“ Now, David, read a chapter from the Word, and then 
get ’ee to bed, lad.” 

“ And you, granny ? Where will you sleep ?” inquired 
the young man. 

“ I shall sit in my old arm-chair by the fire as long 
as I can keep up, and then I shall lie down on the 
bed beside the lassie, so as to wake readily if she 
should stir.” 

“ Don’t sit up too long, dear Granny. You are not 
able.” 

“ Don’t ’ee fear, Davie ; I’ll lie down when I grow 
weary.” 

David brought the Bible and seated himself at the 
table opposite his aged relative, and read parts of the 
first and second chapters of Matthew, recording the 
genealogy and birth of our Saviour. Then the dame 
folded her hands and reverently prayed for both, that 
they might be able to receive the Lord in their affec- 
tions in that sacred Christmas season, and be led by 
Him forever. 

'' Now, David, lad, get ’ee to bed,” she said, as she 
arose from her knees. 

“ If I can be of any use during the night, will you call 
me, granny ?” 

“ Ay, lad, be sure of that.” 

Then David kissed her withered hand and went up 
to his loft ; but instead of going into bed, he placed 


184 


Gloria. 


himself on the floor with his feet through the trap-door, 
resting on the highest step, and there he sat and 
watched and listened until Christmas Eve passed into 
Christmas Morn. 

About midnight he heard his grandmother rise from 
her chair and cross the room, to lie down beside the 
sleeping girl. 

Then he bent his head and called : 

“ Granny ! granny !” 

“ Ay, lad, what is it ?” 

Can I do anything at all ?” 

“ Nay, bo)^ Get 'ee back to bed.” 

She did not suspect that he had not been in bed. 

He resumed his watch and kept it up until daylight. 
He scarcely heard a sound from below, except an occa- 
sional slight sigh, or motion from the old woman, who, 
like all aged persons, was a very light sleeper. 

When morning dawned, David heard his grandmother 
rise and open the windows. 

Then he called down the stairs once more : 

“ Granny — ” 

“ Ay, lad.” 

“ Can I help you now ?” 

“Ay, lad, put on ’ee clothes and come down.” 

David had not taken off his clothes, and therefore had 
not to put them on. He instantly descended the narrow 
stairs and stood before his grandmother. 

“ I never knew ’ee to dress so quick, lad,” she said. 

“ That was because I was not undressed. What can 
I do first, granny ?” 

“ Ay, indeed ! ’Ee’s been sitting up all night ! It 
was a useless loss of rest, Davie, but well meant. 


On a Strange Bed. 


185 


Take ’eeself off now to the shed and bring in some wood, 
lad,” 

The young man went out to do her bidding, and soon 
returned with an armful of brown hickory logs, which 
he laid upon the fire. 

Then he took the tea-kettle out and filled it from the 
cistern and brought it back and hung it over the blaze. 

Every movement of the old woman and the young 
man was made quietly and noiselessly, so as not to dis- 
turb the calm sleeper, who as yet gave no signs of 
waking. 

Now, lad. I'll leave 'ee here to watch the kettle. 
Take it off as soon as it boils, and don’t forget to turn 
the johnny cake,” said Dame Lindsay, as she took her 
fresh sweet pail and went out to milk the cow, a duty 
she would never allow David to do for her. Indeed, 
the act of setting a man or boy to milk would have 
shocked her ideas of the fitness of things. She would 
have thought it an insult to the cow. 

When she had closed the door behind her, David 
Lindsay gave a glance to the fireplace, to see that all 
was right there, and then he went on tiptoe to the side 
of the bed and gazed reverently on “ the sleeping 
beauty.” 

The quilt that had been hung in front to shield her 
eyes from the ruddy blaze of the fire on the previous 
night, when repose was so necessary to her shattered 
nervous system, was now removed to give her more 
air ; for the time had come when it would be well for 
her to awake. The bed had been straightened into 
perfect order and the white counterpane drawn up, so 
that only the lovely face, laying with its right cheek on 
the pillow, and forehead towards the front of the bed. 


Gloria, 


1 86 


was visible. The golden hair had been drawn away 
from the nape of the neck and carried up over the pil- 
low, where it lay a shining mass of curls. A very 
pathetic face it was, with the tender eyes half shut, the 
sweet lips half closed. Her sleep looked like the “ deep 
deliciousness of death though had it been really 
that, it might have been said with equal truth that it 
looked like the sweetest sleep. 

David Lindsay sank on his knees beside the bed and 
gazed on the beautiful, unconscious face turned towards 
him, as he never would have dared to gaze had those 
features been instinct with wakeful intelligence. And 
then, out of the fullness of his heart, he began to 
murmur words of passionate love to those sealed ears 
that he never would have ventured to utter had they 
been listening — words of reverential, worshiping love, 
that for their incoherence and extravagance could 
scarcely bear repetition here. He lifted a tress of the 
floating golden hair and pressed it to his lips, while his 
tears fell thick and heavily. 

“ Why do I love you T he sighed at length. “ I 
know it is vain, and worse than vain ! I am but a clod 
of the earth ! And you, what are you ? I scarcely 
know. Something so pure, so precious, so sacred, that 
it seems sacrilege to touch this halo around your head, 
these peerless tresses. Yet I love you ! I love you ! 
Clod as I am, I love you, oh ! unattainable blessing ! I 
might as well love a queen on her throne, the sun in the 
heavens, the moon, or any glorious, infinitely distant 
star ! Oh, Gloria ! Gloria ! Bright seraph, why did you 
come and shine on this poor earth that I am, to 
quicken it with a living soul — to wake it to such love, 
such suffering, such despair ?" 


On a Strange Bed. 


187 


Down went his head again upon the side of the bed, 
while his bosom heaved with heavy sobs, and his tears 
fell like rain. 

“ David Lindsay y 

Her sweet voice fell on his ears like a benediction. 

He lifted his head. She was awake, and gazing 
gently on his troubled face. 

“ What is the matter, David Lindsay ? What has 
happened?” she inquired, with a look of sympathy 
and deep perplexity. 

“ Nothing ; I mean — yes, something has happened, 
but it is well over, and oh, how I thank heaven to 
hear you speak again !” he said, with an effort to 
recover his self-control, as he arose from his knees. 

“ What ? Is the little lady awake at last ! Well, 
it is time. It would not have been good for her to 
have slept longer,” said the voice of Dame Lindsay, 
who had just entered the room and approached the 
bed. 

‘‘ She has just this instant opened her eyes, and has 
scarcely yet collected her thoughts, I think,” said the 
young man, in a low tone, as he gave place to the old 
woman, and went out of the house to conceal from her 
the traces of his strong emotion. 

“ How does ’ee feel, dearie ?” inquired the dame, 
bending over the revived girl. 

“ I don’t think I quite know,” answered Gloria, with 
a bewildered look, as she passed her hand over her 
forehead, as if to clear away some mental mist of for- 
getfulness, and opened her eyes, half raised herself in 
bed, and gazed around her. 

“ Does ’ee know mcy dearie ?” 


i88 


Gloria, 


“ Oh, yes, dee-2iV^ good Dame Lindsay, but I don’t 
remember — ” 

“ Does ’ee know where ’ee is, darling ?” 

“ To be sure I do know this dee-2ir old cottage, but I 
can’t remember coming here at all !” 

“As how should ’ee, indeed, darling? ’Ee knowed 
nothing about it ! Now, don’t talk any more, and don’t 
even think^ if ’ee can help it ; but lie still until I bring 
’ee some strong beef tea to nourish ’ee and give 
strength,” said the good woman, as she laid the girl’s 
head back on the pillow and drew the counterpane up 
to her chin. 

But a change came over Gloria’s face. Dark memory, 
like a cloud, arose and overcast it ; yet she mistook the 
reality for a dream, and she shuddered as she said : 

“ Oh, dee-2iT Granny Lindsay, don’t go yet ! Give me 
your hand, and let me hold you fast ! I am frightened 
— I am frightened — ” 

“ What is the matter with ’ee, dearie ?” inquired the 
sympathetic woman, as she gave her hand, which the 
girl clasped spasmodically, and held fast. 

“ Oh, Granny, Granny Lindsay, I have had such a 
horrid, horrid nightmare ! 1 dreamed that I was drown- 

ing, and, oh, I saw and felt it all, as if it had been real ! 
Oh, Granny Lindsay, don’t leave me yet, but tell me 
what has happened, and how I came to be here ? Have 
I been ill a long time ? — and delirious ? I have heard 
Of people being so ill and delirious that they could 
know nothing of the passage of time. Uncle w^as so, 
you know, after auntie died. Have I been so long ?” 

“No, dearie, ’ee couldn’t talk so fast, if ’ee had been,’* 
replied the dame, with a smile. 


On a Strange Bed, 189 


Then what has happened, and how is it that I am 
here instead of at home 

“ 'Ee has had a ducking in the sea, lassie, no worse. 
■Ee was swept off the. Rogue’s Neck by the tide, when 
'ee was too late in trying to cross, and ’ee might 
have — ” 

“ Oh, yes, yes, yes, it was no nightmare, but an awful 
fact !” murmured the girl to herself, as she pressed her 
hands upon her face. 

“ And ’ee might have been drowned sure enough if 
Davie hadn’t seen ’ee from his boat and picked ’ee up, 
dearie.” 

“ David Lindsay,” breathed the girl. 

“ Ay, dearie, David Lindsay. He picked ’ee up and 
brought ’ee home here, because it was so much nearer 
than the hall, ’ee knows, dearie.” 

“ David Lindsay saved my life !” murmured the girl, 
dreamily. 

“ Ay, little lady, he did ; and so ’ee got no worse 
harm than a cold ducking — though indeed ’ee was quite 
insensible, and seemed lifeless when ’ee was brought 
here in the arms of Davie. But ’ee’s all right now, 
dearie.” 

“ David Lindsay saved my life !” reiterated the girl, 
dwelling fondly on the words, and on the thought. 

Eh ! lass, surely yes, and we must thank the Lord 
that ’ee was saved.” 

‘‘ Yes ; and David Lindsay, too ! Oh ! I am pleased 
that it was he^ my old playmate, and no other. What 
will uncle say now ?” muttered the girl, still dreamily. 

Eh ! dearie, he would say that ’ee ought to take 
some nourishing food immediately. Ain’t ’ee hungry 
now, say 


190 


Gloria. 


“Yes,” promptly replied Gloria. 

“ Now ’ee knows all about it, ’ee’ll not be afeard to 
let me go ?” 

“ Oh, no !” said Gloria, smiling ; for she was every 
moment growing better. 

The dame brought her the beef tea and dry toast 
from the fire, and made her take that first, saying : 

“ 'Ee shall have a cup of coffee or tea, whichever 'ee 
likes, presently ; but this is the best for 'ee now.” 

Gloria obediently consumed all the beef tea and dry 
toast, and relished both. 

“ Now I feel well ; but I think I would rather lie here 
a few minutes longer, and not try to get up yet, if you 
will let me, dee-^x Dame Lindsay.” 

“ To be sure, little lady. 'Ee should lie there quietly 
all the morning, and when 'ee rises should rest quietly 
in the house for a day or two. Could ’ee be satisfied 
to stay here till 'ee gets over the shock ?” 

“ Oh, yes, dee-?x Dame Lindsay, I was always so 
happy when here with you. Oh, I wish there would 
come a snow-storm, and I would be snow-bound here 
for a long time. But oh, poor uncle ! Does he know 
that David Lindsay saved my life ?” 

“ No, dearie ; there has been no time to tell him. It 
is early in the morning yet, 'ee knows ; but after break- 
fast Davie must go and tell him that 'ee’s safe.” 

“ And that I must stay here for a few days,” added 
Gloria. 

“ Surely, dearie,” replied the old woman. 

At that moment the two were startled by a loud 
knock. 

Dame Lindsay got up to answer the summons, but 


Driven to Desperation. 


191 


before she could cross the floor, the door was thrown 
violently open and Colonel de Crespigney strode into 
the room, looking pale, haggard, hurried, and at least 
thirty years older than when we saw him last. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

DRIVEN TO DESPERATION. 

O, shut me nightly in a charnel house, 

O’er covered quite with dead men’s rattling bones, 

With reeking shanks, and yellow, chapless skulls ; 

Or bid me go into a new-made grave 

And hide me with a dead man in his shroud — 

Things that to hear them told have made me tremble— 
And I will do them without fear or doUbt 
To live unstained. 

Shakespeare. 

“ I beg your parden for this sudden intrusion, but — I 
am suffering great — the greatest anxiety!” he began, cast- 
ing his eyes around the room. “ My ward has been miss- 
ing since yesterday. Have you seen — have you heard — ” 

“ She is- safe, Colonel de Crespigney. She is quite 
safe. She is here,” answered Dame Lindsay, leading 
the visitor around the headboard of the bed, that had 
hitherto hidden the recumbent girl from his sight. 

“Gloria, my darling !” he exclaimed, as soon as his 
eyes fell upon her. “ Heavens, what a fright you have 
given us ! What insufferable tortures of anxiety and 
suspense ! And to find you here, and in bed, too I 


192 


Gloria. 


What does all this mean ?” he demanded, turning in 
more displeasure than gratitude to the old dame. 

“ It means that the little lady, while trying to walk 
across the Rogue’s neck, was overtaken by the tide and 
swept off to sea, and was picked up by my Davie, who 
happened to be out with his boat, and who brought her 
here as to the nearest house,” replied Dame Lindsay. 

“ What is all this that she tells me, Gloria ?” inquired 
the shocked colonel. 

The truth, uncle ! David Lindsay saved my life,” 
said the girl with a glow of gratitude and pride. 

“ A gallant deed, for which he shall be most liberally 
rewarded,” said Colonel de Crespigney, as he sank into 
the chair that Dame Lindsay had silently placed for 
him at the side of the bed. 

Gloria darted a glance full of scorn and indiguation 
at this speech. It fell harmlessly on the colonel’s 
unobservant head, and he repeated : “ A gallant deed, 

truly, of the young fisherman, and he shall be munifi- 
cently paid ! But, my dear girl, how could you have 
been so imprudent as to cross to the main alone ? Did 
you not know there was great danger ?” 

“ I did not care. I was weary of miyself and everybody 
else ! And now I am very glad I went, for David Lind- 
say saved my life” said Gloria, luxuriating over the 
words and the thought. 

“ I say it was a brave deed, for which he shall be 
munificently rewarded,” repeated the colonel ; “ but 
still, my darling, I think that it was a pity your life 
should be risked for the sake of having it saved, even 
by David Tfindsay,” he added, with a little sarcasm. 

“ I think not ! The risk and pain are compensated by 
the memory left behind — a sweetness that will last me all my 


Driven to Desperation, 


193 


daysp replied the girl, as a strange tenderness of joy 
melted and irradiated her face. 

The colonel’s brow grew dark. He did not speak for 
a few moments ; when he did it was to say : 

My dear Gloria, we owe a deep debt of gi'atitude to 
this good woman and her son — or grandson, is he ? bnt 
we must not trespass on their kind hospitality. I am 
sure you must be sufficiently recovered to rise and dress 
and return with me to the hall.” 

“Oh, no, sir, indeed she is not. She has been so 
shaken by her shock. Take an old ’oman’s word for it, 
sir, she had better bide here a day or two,” said Dame 
Lindsay, speaking earnestly for her guest. 

“ Indeed, uncle, she is right. I need to stay here 
where, I am,” added Gloria. 

“ Will you have the kindness to withdraw for a few 
moments and leave me alone with my ward ? I have 
something to say to her in private,” said Colonel de 
Crespigney, turning to the woman. 

Dame Lindsay bent her head and went up into the 
little loft, and improved her time there by making 
David’s bed. 

“ Gloria, my dearest, I could not speak freely to you 
in the presence of your humble hostess — ” began the 
colonel ; but the willful girl impatiently interrupted 
him. 

“ ^Humble hostess,’ uncle ? Why should Dame Lind- 
say be called ‘ humble,’ indeed ? I call her my honored 
hostess, in my own thoughts.” 

“ Well, well, my little girl, call her what you will. I 
shall not differ with you. But, my dear, I was about to 
say that it is not fitting or proper that you should remain 
here any longer.” 


194 


Gloria. 


“ Why is it not fitting or proper, uncle ?” 

“ Because this is the house of a young laboring man, 
and while you are here you are his visitor.” 

“ But I am his grandmother’s guest,” persisted Gloria. 

“ No, my child, no ; the house is his^ not his grand- 
mother’s. The position is unfit, improper, indelicate. 
I wonder you do not see that it is so !” 

“No, I do not see it. But if any one sees it, that is 
enough. I cannot stay, of course. I will go home with 
you, uncle.” 

“ That is right, Gloria. That is right, my dearest 
girl. I thank you, love, for your ready acquiescence 
in my views and compliance with my wishes. As 
for this young Lindsay, who is such a favorite 
of yours — and deservedly so, I must admit — he shall be 
well paid for the service he has rendered you. I will 
send him a check for a thousand dollars to-morrow.” 

“ Marcel !” exclaimed Gloria, lifting herself up and 
looking him straight in the face, “ if you do such a thing 
as that I will never forgive you as long as I live in this 
world !” 

“ Gloria, what on earth do you mean ? Have you 
gone crazy, my child ?” 

“ No, but I think you have I” 

“ What do you mean ?” 

“ I mean just what I say. Colonel de Crespigney ! If 
you were to offer David Lindsay money for saving my 
life, I would never speak to you again as long as I 
should live on this earth !” 

“ But, my dear, unreasonable child, why should I not 
do so ?” 

“ < Why?’ I wonder you^ a gentleman and a soldier, 
you, a De Crespigney, cannot see why ?” said Gloria, 


Driven to Desperation. 


195 


harping a little upon his own words of a few minutes 
past. 

I cannot see ; but if you or any one can^ I should 
like to be informed of the reason,” said the colonel, in 
the same spirit. 

Then I will tell you. Suppose it had fallen to your 
lot to rescue Dame Lindsay from drowning, and David 
Lindsay had offered you money, as much as he could 
afford, in payment of your service, what would have 
thought ? How would you have felt ?” 

“ My dearest Gloria, the cases differ totally,” exclaimed 
the colonel, with a flushed brow. 

“ They do not differ in one essential point, uncle, 
and you know it, and feel it noWy if you neither knew 
nor felt it before. I will yield to your wishes and 
return home with you to-day. But you must not insult 
my preserver by offering him any sort of reward for 
saving me. You may thank him, for yourself and for 
me ; but thank him as you would thank General Stuart, 
or Doctor Battis, or any other gentleman of your 
acquaintance, had either of them rendered me the same 
inestimable service.” 

“ My dear, absurd child, I do thank him more than 
tongue can tell. I think the most practical way of 
expressing my thanks would be to send him a check 
for a round sum ; but if you prefer that I should take 
off my hat to him instead, why, I will do that.” 

Yes, do that. Take off your hat to him. And, now 
please to go to the foot of the stairs there and call 
Granny Lindsay down. She will get cold if ^he stays 
up in that fireless loft any longer,” said Gloria, who 
had been anxious all this time on account of her old 
friend. 


196 


Gloria. 


“Mrs. Lindsay, Miss de la Vera would like to see 
you,” said Colonel de Crespigney, from the foot of the 
ladder. 

“ Ay, sir, I will come down,” answered the dame, 
and she immediately descended. 

“ Granny Lindsay, my uncle has convinced me that 
I ought to return home with him. I am very sorry to 
leave you, but I must go !” said Gloria, gently. 

“ Ah, well, dearie, I am sorry, too — but of course ’ee 
must be gnided by ’ee gardeen, little lady, and I hope 
’ee’ll take no harm. ’Ee clothes are all dry and ready 
for ’ee, and I’ll wrap ’ee up warm and nice for ’ee little 
journey,” said the dame. 

“ And now, uncle, will please to withdraw ! You 
see there is only this one room and we must take 
turns.” 

Colonel de Crespigney smiled good humoredly enough 
as he left the house to walk up and down in the crisp, 
cold winter air outside. 

Dame Lindsay brought the girl’s clothes from the 
chair over which they had been hanging near the fire. 

“ Granny Lindsay, where has David Lindsay gone ?” 
inquired Gloria, as she arose and began to dress her- 
self. 

“ Down to the shore to look after his boat, I reckon, 
lovie ; or maybe he has crossed to the main to bring a 
load of brushwood.” 

“ He hurried away as soon as I awoke and you came 
in.” 

“ Yes,^earie, he did so to give you a chance to get 
up and dress, 1 reckon.” 

“ Will he be back before I go ?” 

“ I hope so, dearie.” 


Driven to Desperation. 


97 


Gloria slowly dressed herself, and then requested 
that her uncle might be called in. 

Dame Lindsay, meanwhile, had placed coffee, hot 
rolls, and broiled ham on the breakfast table, and 
now she went to the door and summoned Colonel de 
Crespigney. 

“ I hope you will do us the pleasure to take a cup of 
coffee this Christmas morning, sir,” said the dame, as 
she placed a chair at the table for her last visitor. 

“ Thanks, no ; I took coffee before I left home this 
morning,” answered the colonel. 

But Gloria sat down and drank a little cup with her 
hostess. 

Then, not to keep her guardian waiting longer than 
necessary, she arose, and put on her hat and sack to 
depart. 

Good-by, dear friend,” she said, offering her cheek 
to the old dame’s kiss. Good-by. I shall never for- 
get your motherly kindness to me . And please to say 
good-by for me to David Lindsay, and tell him that I 
shall hold my life sweeter from this day forth, because 
he saved it.” 

With this grateful and gracious message to her pre- 
server, Gloria joined her uncle and left the cottage. 

Involuntarily her eyes roamed all over the islet, in 
search of her old playmate ; but in vain, for he was 
nowhere to be seen. 

Lean heavily on me, my child. You are pale and 
trembling,” said De Crespigney tenderly, as he drew 
her hand under his arm and slackened his steps to 
accommodate them to her weary walk. 

When they reached the shore, Gloria looked around 
again for some sign of David Lindsay’s presence, but 


Gloria. 


198 


there was none to be seen, not even his little boat ; and 
this was a certain indication that the dame’s conjectures 
pointed to the truth, and that the young fisherman had 
crossed to the main. 

With a sigh Gloria gave up the hope she had cherished 
of seeing and thanking him in person before leaving the 
island. 

Colonel de Crespigney’s boat was waiting, and 
Laban, who had seen them coming, and joyfully 
recognized Gloria, was laying on the oars. 

“ Come, my dear,” said the colonel, as he handed his 
ward to her seat in the stern — come, make yourself 
comfortable. Double your sack over your chest. It is 
a splendid day for late December, but the air is rather 
keen on the water.” 

“ Oh, Miss Glo’ ! I’s so glad you’s safe !” cried 
Laban, grinning from ear to ear. “ ’ Deed we dem over 
to the house is been almos’ crazy ’bout yer ebber since 
las’ night, when yer- didn’t come home to dinner. And 
me and Marse Colonel Discrepancy heatin’ de main 
woods all night long ! All de blessed, live-long Christ- 
mas Ebe night I And took Fiddle 'long of us and made 
her smell some o’ yer close, and didn’t she take a round- 
about ramble t’rough dem woods ?” 

“ Did you hunt for me all last night, Marcel, dear ?” 
inquired Gloria, with more tenderness than she had 
shown him for many weeks. 

^‘Yes, my child. Did you suppose, Gloria, that I 
could have rested one moment, anywhere, from the 
hour that you were missed until you were found ? It 
was at dinner that, on your non-appearance, I inquired 
of your maid why you did not come, and was told that 
you had been gone all day to the main, and had not 


DiHven to Desperation. 


199 


returned. I had no thought but that you had lost your- 
self in the woods, and so I set out at once, with Laban 
here and your little dog Fidelle, and lanterns. The 
tide was low when we crossed the Neck. The little 
animal soon struck your trail, and convinced me that I 
was right. You have been told how she kept us wan- 
dering around in a circle all night. In the morning, as 
a forlorn hope, we returned to the Promontory, took the 
boat and came to the island to make inquiries.” 

“ Oh ! Marcel, dear, I never realized before how much 
distress my imprudence caused you,” said Gloria, peni- 
tently, as she now for the first time observed the 
ravages that one night’s intense anxiety had wrought 
in the man’s face. 

“ Yer better beliebe it den, Miss Glo’ !” spoke up 
Laban. “ Ef my head hadn’t been gray long afore 
dis, last night’s doings would a turned it ! And dere’s 
’Phia, gone to bed long of a sick headache, and ’Mia in 
de high-strikes.” 

While this conversation was going on they were 
rapidly passing over the water between Sandy Isle and 
the Promontory. 

With Laban’s last words, the boat grounded on the 
beach below the sea-wall, and the boatman drew in his 
oars. 

Go on to the house as fast as you can, Laban, and 
relieve the anxiety of your fellow- servants, so that they 
may be in a condition to attend Miss Davero when we 
get home,” said Colonel de Crespigney, as he handed 
his ward from the boat. 

The man very gladly obeyed, and ran on before them 
so rapidly that he was soon out of sight. 

Colonel de Crespigney found himself alone with his 


200 


Gloria, 


ward for the first time (with the exception of the few 
minutes they had talked together in the little island 
cot, whose very walls had ears). 

He drew her hand within his arm, and supporting 
her carefully, walked slowly on through that boat-house 
built in the sea wall, and then up through the fields and 
ornamented grounds that lay between it and the hall. 

Gloria, my beloved, can you really estimate all I 
have suffered during your unexplained absence ?" he 
inquired, as he pressed the hand that rested on his 
arm. 

Yes, uncle, I think I can. I am very sorry. I was 
not worth so much anxiety, uncle, dear.” 

not call me uncle ! I cannot bear to hear 
you call me so !” he burst forth with such energy that 
the girl shrank from him, and shuddered through all 
her frame. 

“ Gloria ! Do you not understand me ? Will you 
never understand me ? Child, I can smother my feel- 
ings no longer ! I have tried to keep silence, but I can- 
not ! Twenty-four hours of agony have overcome my 
last power — self-control ! Oh, my love, I love you ! I 
love you !” he cried, stopping suddenly and facing her. 

“ Uncle — for Heaven’s sake, uncle !” she exclaimed, 
in deadly terror. 

Do not call me by that name unless you would 
drive me mad ! I am not the least kin to you ! I 
thank the Lord I am not your uncle ; for I must be — 
your husband ! There, it is spoken ! I love you, 
Gloria, with a love that has broken down every barrier 
of prudence, self-control, expediency, everything! I 
love you with a love that is my fate, and must be yours ! 
For you must be my wife, Gloria !” he cried, clasping 


The Last Resort. 


20 


her hands in his and gazing on her with eyes that 
seemed to bum into her soul. 

One amazed and terrified look she cast upon him, 
and then with a half suppressed cry, she broke away 
and fled ! 


CHAPTER XV. 

THE LAST RESORT. 

Me miserable ! Which way shall I fly ? 

Milton. 

Gloria fled towards the house, sped through the open 
door, rushed up the stairs, nor ever paused until she 
had reached her own chamber and locked herself within it. 

There she sank down into her arm-chair to recover 
breath. Her heart was beating fast, her head reeling. 

She seemed to herself on the point of swooning or 
dying, and she neither feared nor cared if this were her 
last hour on earth. 

She only feared to hear again the revolting words 
that had just been breathed in her shuddering ears. 
She only cared to escape their repetition. 

This, then, was the meaning of those fixed looks that 
had so thrilled her nerves and curdled her blood — Mar- 
cel de Crespigney wanted to marry her ! Marcel, 
whom she always so loyally loved as her dear aunt’s 
husband and widower, and as her own uncle by mar- 
riage, now wished to make her his wife ! 


202 


Gloria. 


She shuddered, and covered her eyes with her hands, 
as if to shut out the vision of such a marriage. 

But she could not shut out the vision of the beauti- 
ful, rather weak face that arose before her in all its 
pale, pathetic, appealing sadness. Those large, dark, 
melancholy eyes haunted her. 

She jcould not rouse her soul to any anger against 
him. She loved him too well, as she had always done 
from her earliest infancy to this moment. She could 
not now remember the day when she had not loved 
him better than any one in the whole world. She 
loved him no was well as ever — as her uncle, her Marcel 
— but she loathed him as a suitor for her hand. 

And withal she pitied him deeply. 

Poor Marcel !” she murmured to herself when she 
had grown a little calmer. “ Poor Marcel ! He has 
always sacrificed himself for the happiness of other 
people — even for auntie — and he has never had any 
happiness himself. And now he is losing his reason. 
He certainly is losing his reason, or he would never 
dream of such a mad act as marrying — Ugh ! I will not 
think of it. What a misfortune. What can have 
caused it ? His long, lonely life perhaps. And perhaps 
also, as he loves me so dearly, and he has no one else 
but me to love, he is afraid that I will do as other young 
ladies do — that is, some time or other, marry and leave 
him. Foolish old Marcel, to think that I would leave 
him for any one else ! If he did but know me, he would 
know that I should never marry. But the more I think 
of it, the surer I feel that that is the reason of his strange 
conduct. He loves me ; he has no one left but me, and 
he fears that I will leave him, and so he wants to 
marry me just to prevent my going, and to insure my 


The Last Resort. 


203 


staying with him as long as he lives. But, oh, what an 
alternative !” she added, with a shudder. 

She was, however, growing calmer, having found as 
she supposed, a solution of the whole difficulty. 

Now,” she continued her mental argument, “when 
Marcel is made to understand that I will never leave 
him so long as he lives, and never even wish to leave 
him, but will remain with him, and be perfectly happy 
with him, in devoting myself entirely to his service, as 
the most loving and dutiful daughter or niece could do, 
then of course, he will be perfectly satisfied.” 

The ringing of the first dinner-bell roused her from 
her reverie. 

“ Poor Marcel !” she said to hetself. “ I dare say he 
thinks now that he has frightened and offended me 
so thoroughly that I will not go down and join him 
at dinner, even on this Christmas-day ! And indeed he 
did more than frighten me — he shocked me so awfully 
that I am sure I could never bear to look on his poor, 
wretched face again, if I had not found a way to cure 
him of his madness, and make him contented — a way 
that will not require any self-sacrifice on my part either, 
for I never even dreamed of marrying and leaving him. 
I never liked the idea of marrying. The most unhappy 
people I ever saw in my life were married people — my 
aunt and uncle — and the happiest people I ever knew 
were the unmarried. No ! I will never marry and 
leave my uncle ! And when I make him understand this, 
he will renounce his foolish and sacrilegious mania 
and rest contented with the company of his niece.” 

While turning these thoughts over in her mind, she 
was examining the contents of her wardrobe to select 
a dress suitable to the occasion. 


204 


Gloria. 


Gloria de la Vera had always dressed in a style 
too old for her early youth and bright beauty. The 
reason was perhaps that she saw only elderly or 
aged people. 

Now, for this Christmas tete-d-tete dinner with her 
uncle, she wore a dark blue moire antique, wdth low 
neck and short sleeves richly trimmed with old point 
lace. Her ornaments were heirlooms of her father’s 
family — earrings, necklace and bracelets of pearls set in 
diamonds. Her rippling golden hair was carried back 
from her forehead and gathered into a shower of ring- 
lets that fell over a low comb from the top of her head 
to her graceful shoulders. 

As the second belt rang, she opened the door and 
descended to the drawing-room. 

Meanwhile Marcel de Crespigney had returned to the 
house, entered the privacy of his library, and banged 
the door to, angrily, behind him. 

And there he had spent some hours striding up and 
down the floor and calling down maledictions on his own 
head for his want of patience and self-control. 

In the midst of his confusion the sound of the first 
dinner-bell smote his ears. 

He did not attend to its warning to go and make his 
toilet, but continued to walk up and down the floor, 
breathing imprecations upon his own folly, until the 
more imperative clangor of the second bell summoned 
him. 

‘‘And now,” he said, “ I suppose I have so offended 
and estranged her as to drive her away from the table 
so that I shall have to dine alone on Christmas-day ! 
Well, it will serve me right if I do !” 

And with another malediction upon his “ madness,” 


The Last Resort, 


205 


he left the study and walked slowly and sadly into the 
dining-room. 

How great was his surprise and pleasure to see his 
beloved Gloria standing with her hand upon the back 
of her chair, at the head of the table. 

He noticed, too, that she was carefully and beauti- 
fully dressed — though, with her moire antique, old point 
lace and diamonds, more in the style of a middle-aged 
matron than a very youthful maiden. 

She was looking happy, too — a circumstance which he 
misunderstood and misinterpreted in his own favor, for 
he could not know what had been passing in her own 
mind, or that her content was founded on the faith that 
she had discovered a perfect solution for the difficulty 
in which she had previously found herself. 

If the servant had not been present he would have 
expressed his contrition for having frightened her, and 
his delight in meeting her again, but there stood Laban, 
in his best holiday dress, a suit of fine black broad- 
cloth, swallow-tailed coat and continuations, black satin 
vest and spotless linen, exhibiting at once the self-con- 
sciousness of a dandy and the solemnity of a bishop, 
and looking disapprobation on his shabby and rusty 
master, who had made no toilet in honor of the Christ- 
mas dinner. 

The young lady of the house took no notice of the 
colonel’s neglect ; yet it was to her he spoke, of course, 
when he said : 

I owe you an apology, my dear, for appearing 
before you in this style, but really — ” 

Never mind, uncle, dear. We are alone, so what 
does it matter ? Who has a better right to appear in 
comfortable dishabille at his own table than you have ?” 


2o6 


Gloria, 


she brightly inquired, thinking at the same time of the 
graver apology he owed her for a heavier offence. 

He naturally misinterpreted her good humor, and 
rewarded it with a smile of gratitude. 

Though they were but two, the dinner was a pro- 
tracted one, for there were many courses, and the 
family cook would have felt enraged if every one of 
them had not been honored. 

And old Laban — a cross between a bishop and a 
dandy — waited with solemnity and self-conceit. 

At length it was over, and they adjourned to the 
drawing-room. 

“ Shall I play Luther’s Christmas hymn for you, uncle, 
dear ?” inquired Gloria, as she seated herself before the 
piano. 

“Yes, love, thank you, play that, but no more ; for I 
wish to talk with yon and settle something before I can 
take any interest in anything else,” he replied. 

Gloria sat down and played and sang with all her 
usual feeling, spirit and charm. 

When she had finished her hymn, she arose and went 
to the fire and seated herself beside her guardian ; for 
she also wished to talk to him, and “ settle something ” 
which she believed would content them both. 

Colonel de Crespigney was the first to speak. 

“ I was too sudden with you this morning, dear. I 
did not stop to consider how your nerves had been 
shaken by the frightful accident of yesterday, and so 
I startled you by a too abrupt disclosure of my feel- 
ings.” He paused a moment, and then added, “I beg 
you to forgive my want of consideration, dear child, and 
to let me hope — ” He paused again, and she took his 
hand and said kindly : 


The Last Resort. 


207 


“ Say no more about it, uncle, dear. I understand, 
— I understand, and I have something to reply pres- 
ently." 

“ You understand, and yet you call me uncle !" he 
said, wincing. 

It was a slip of the tongue, Marcel, dear. A mere 
matter of habit. I will learn to call you anything you 
please, so that I may make you happy," she answered, 
affectionately. 

And you will let me hope — you will let me hope — 
that some day, not far off, you will give yourself to me 
entirely ; you will be my own, my precious, my pearl 
beyond price, my best gift of God — my wife ?" he 
breathed, in low, deep, intense tones, while his whole 
dark face grew radiant with happiness. He took her 
hand and gazed into her eyes. She drew her hand 
away, averted her head and shrank from him. 

“ My timid one, what are you afraid of ?" he tenderly 
inquired, drawing nearer to her, and attempting gently 
to steal his arm around her waist, for he still fatally 
misunderstood her. 

“ Don’t, uncle, don’t ! This is madness ! This is 
sacrilege !" she exclaimed, withdrawing herself from 
his gentle caress. “ I am not timid, uncle ; but don’t do 
that again, or you will drive me out of your sight for- 
ever," she added, as she walked away to a distant win- 
dow, and stood there, pale and trembling, looking out, 
but seeing nothing. 

Marcel de Crespigney remained where she had left 
him, leaning back into his chair, with his eyes fixed 
upon the fire — like hers, seeing nothing. 

He did not attempt to follow her to apologize or 
explain. He was sorely perplexed. 


2o8 


Gloria. 


After a few moments, when she had had time to com- 
pose herself, she came back to her seat and said : 

When I ran away from you this morning, I was too 
much shocked and distracted to understand anything 
rightly, or to know what to do. But after I had come 
to myself I began to reflect, and, at length, I compre- 
hended — ” She paused, as if to think a little longer. 

^‘Yes, dear; I know, I know. I will give you time. 
I will be very patient,” he replied, very gently and con- 
tentedly, for he still widely misinterpreted her. She 
did not know that he did so misinterpret her, and thus 
they were unconsciously at cross-purposes. 

“ And,” slowly continued the girl, “ as soon as I com- 
prehended, I resolved to come to you and tell you some- 
thing that I have determined upon, and which I think 
will harmonize our lives, and make us both happier.” 

“Yes, love, yes, speak freely, speak plainly,” he 
breathed hardly, suppressing every impulse to draw 
nearer to her, or to touch her hand that hung so near 
his, over the arm of her chair. 

“ Well, then, Marcel, dear — oh ! it is difficult to speak 
of marriage, even negatively, as I shall ! — but, Marcel, 
I know you have been thinking that some day I might, 
as other young folks do, marry and leave my home for 
another ; and so, to prevent me from doing that, you 
dreamed of the impossible plan you proposed to me — ” 

“ ‘ Impossible,’ Gloria ?” he repeated, as his happy 
fdce gloomed and darkened. 

“Yes, ‘ impossible,’ because insane, profane, sacrile- 
gious ! Oh, I cannot bear to think of it ! Do not com- 
pel me to think of it — even negatively — after this !” 

“ Gloria !” he cried, in a tone of pain and reproach. 

“ Hear me out, dear Marcel ! for indeed I mean to re- 


The Last Resort. 


209 


assure you ! Listen, then ! Since you love me so 
well that you would even marry me — ugh ! — rather 
than lose me, hear me promise, Marcel, that you shall 
never lose me. I will never, never, never leave you to 
marry any one at all ! I will stay with you and he 
your own faithful, affectionate, devoted niece, loving 
you as if I were your daughter — loving and serving you 
as my dear uncle, and even as if you were my own 
father ! Now, Marcel, I promise to do this on the word 
of a de la Vera, whose very name is Truth ! if only you 
would give up this mad and sacrilegious idea of me, 
which, of course, I know you will readily do.” 

“ And is this your plan for ‘ harmonizing our lives * 
and making me happy ?” he groaned, with such a look 
of anguish that Gloria could not endure it. With a low 
cry of pain she averted her face. 

** But, child, I will not torture you, as .1 see I am 
doing now. Time and patience — time and patience 
work wonders. I must wait and hope — wait and hope,” 
he breathed, with the reiteration of misery. 

She arose and stood behind him, and with her hand 
on the back of his chair, murmured : 

“ Marcel, I am not angry, but I am very, very unhappy. 
I must go now and stay by myself a little while.” 

‘‘ Go then, Gloria ! Go !” he moaned, without turning 
to look at her. 

Gloria fled to her own room ; but even there the 
agonized face she had left behind followed her, haunted 
her, and tormented her. 

Then she dressed herself in her seal jacket and hat 
and went out, and walked up and down under the cold 
starlight of the Christmas night until she was so weary 
that she could walk no longer. 


210 


Gloria. 


Finally she returned to the house and retired to bed 
without again seeing her guardian. 

The terrible mental trials of the days and weeks that 
followed, surpass all powers of description. 

The deep, devoted, constant love of Marcel de Cres- 
pigney for the beautiful child he called his ward, had 
been fanned by opposition and fear of disappointment 
into an intense and insane passion. He lost all patience, 
all self-control ; he could no longer refrain from plead- 
ing with her or caressing her, even when he saw that 
his words and actions inflicted tortures unendurable 
upon the gentle and sensitive soul. 

And Gloria, she suffered with a subtle anguish, diffi- 
cult to analyze, impossible to describe. As his niece 
and child, she loved and pitied her uncle, with all her 
young, compassionate heart, even as she had loved and 
pitied him from her earliest infancy up to present girl- 
hood. But with her Christian faith and training she 
believed his suit to her to be most sinful and sacrile- 
gious, and she shrank from it in horror and loathing 
unspeakable and indescribable. Yet, whenever she 
betrayed these emotions of fear and abhorrence, the 
look of utter misery they would call up on his face would 
cause a momentary revulsion of feeling in her, melting 
her heart to tenderness and sympathy. 

He would be quick to see this change and gather 
hope from it. 

Sometimes during the day, when her pity for him 
almost broke her own heart, she would be on the verge 
of sacrificing all her future life, her religious principles, 
her very soul’s salvation, only to give him happiness, to 
drive away the look of misery from his face, and see him 
smile again. 


The Last Resort, 


2 I I 


Sometimes at night she would dream that she had 
really done this, that she had become her uncle’s wife. 
Then she would wake with a cry of terror and rejoice 
that it was but a dream. At other times she would not 
wake so soon, but would dream on of being married to 
her uncle, and horrified by her position and trying to 
run away to hide herself, to drown herself, to do any- 
thing rather than to fall into his hands, or be compelled 
to live with him as her husband, and so she. would moan 
and sigh in her troubled sleep throughout the night, and 
wake at last prostrated, depressed and miserable, with 
the thought that all too probably, in some weak moment 
when pity should be in the ascendant, this hideous dream 
might become a more hideous reality. 

She had no refuge in her wretchedness, no mother, 
sister or friend to whom she could confide her troubles. 
She could not even go away from her guardian or from 
Promontory Hall. She had no protector in the world 
but him, no home on earth but his house. Besides, he 
was her lawful guardian, and had a guardian’s power 
over her — if, indeed, he ever should choose to exercise 
it against her will, as he never yet had done, and as she 
was sure he never would do. But this power would 
last until she should become of age, or until she should 
marry ; for by the terms of her father’s will, her bond- 
age as a ward was to terminate with her majority or her 
marriage. Thus she had no refuge from the guardian 
who never sought to coerce her inclinations in any way, 
but through her affections, through her love, sympathy 
and compassion, had gained an ever-increasing and 
most fatal power over her. 

More and more dangerous grew her position as days 
and weeks went by. Every day she was weaker, look- 


212 


Gloria, 


ing on her lover’s despair, Every night her dreams 
were more terrible in their likeness to reality. To prove 
the degree to which her brain and nervous system were 
becoming affected, she began to be confused by dreams 
within dreams — in this way : She would dream that 
she awoke from a dream, and waking, found that she 
was really married and miserable ! 

So utterly distracted was her mind that she could 
never be sure what was vision and what reality. 

She felt herself falling into a despair that touched 
insanity, and inspired deadly horror of the ultimate 
results. 

“ I am sinking, day by day, deeper and deeper towards 
perdition I One of two things will happen to me. I 
shall go mad in this struggle — I shall go mad and 
drown myself — or else I shall marry Marcel and mur- 
der him ! If I could only die decently before being 
driven to such extremity ! Heaven help me and save 
me, for I cannot help or save myself !” she moaned, in 
utter anguish. • 

But the crisis was fast approaching. 

It happened on a morning near the last of January. 

The gniardian and ward left the breakfast-room ; he 
had his hand on the knob of the library-door, and she 
was on her way out for a walk, when he called her, and 
begged her to come in and sit with him for a little 
while. 

The meekness of this prayer moved her to grant the 
boon. 

Without a word, she turned and followed him into 
the library. 

He threw himself, with a sigh, into his great leathern 
arm-chair beside his writing-table. She drew forward 


The Last Resort. 


213 


a low ottoman and seated herself at his feet, as she 
had loved to do in the quiet, peaceful days they had 
spent together, just after her return home. 

There was something now in his face and manner so 
broken, subdued, resigned, as to touch her deeply with 
tender compassion, and draw her into demonstrations of 
sympathy and affection, that soon deprived him of all 
self-control. Before she was aware, he reached down 
his hands, caught her up in his arms, strained her to 
his bosom, and pressed passionate kisses upon eyes, 
cheeks and lips, while speechless, breathless, she 
struggled and fluttered like a captured bird, until, at 
length, she broke away and fled from him. 

He sat where she had left him, grieved and angered 
with himself for having shocked and distressed her 
whom he loved better than his own life ; he cursed 
himself and his weakness and his folly as he had never 
done before ! He resolved that henceforth he would 
put such a guard upon himself as never to offend her 
again, by word or look. He would not intrude upon 
her in any way ; but when he should see her again he 
would humbly express his contrition and sorrow for 
having offended her, and would earnestly beg her 
forgiveness. 

And she would forgive him ; for, after all, what great 
wrong had he done ? Only kissed her against her will ; 
kissed her rather roughly, perhaps, but that was 
because she resisted him. What great offence was in 
that ? he asked himself. Had he not seen in the parlor 
games of forfeits played in many a country house — had 
he not seen young men “ pick cherries,” as they called 
it — run after a young girl and catch and kiss her by 


214 


Gloria, 


force, if not against her will, and been punished only 
by a slap on the face, administered with a laugh. 

“ Gloria is too fastidious, too morbid,” he said to 
himself. 

Yet somehow he could not so excuse himself to his 
own conscience. Gloria was pure, dainty and refined, 
and he was very culpable in his conduct toward her, 
his conscience told him. 

Now he resolved that he would ask her pardon, and 
after obtaining it he would be more discreet and 
respectful in his manner towards her until his love and 
patience should win her to be his wife. 

Too LATE. 

Marcel de Crespigney was never in his life again 
permitted to look on the face of Gloria de la Vera. 


CHAPTER XVI. 
gloria’s rage. 

My drops of tears 
I turn to sparks of fire. 

Shakespeare. 

Terrified and enraged beyond anything that she had 
ever experienced in all the days of her life, offended 
and revolted beyond all hope of reconciliation, Gloria 
had fled from the presence of her guardian and sought 
the sanctity of her own room. 

There she locked herself in, and sat down to recover 
her lost wits and breath. 


Gloria! s Rage. 


215 


She sat there, looking not like the glad little Glo' 
whom we first knew, and whose pulse was music and 
whose breath was song — no, she sat there, with her 
elbow on her knee and her chin in her hand, and her 
eyes fixed on vacancy, shrunk to half their size, gleam- 
ing with twice their fire, and glowing like live coals 
from the white ashes of her pale and angry face — she 
sat there like some grim little Sphinx or Nemesis 
brooding revenge and plotting ruin. 

“ I hate him now. I can never bear to look upon his 
face again !” — so ran her thoughts. To dare to kiss 
me on my lips ! Why, my own beloved father seldom 
kissed me except upon my brow. And David Lindsay, 
my old playmate and my preserver, who loves me so 
unselfishly — David Lindsay, as he knelt beside my bed, 
on the morning after he had saved my life, only lifted a 
curl of my hair and pressed it to his face, and when 
he saw me wake and look at him, he laid the tress 
down reverently, as if it were something almost too 
sacred to be touched. And he is a poor, uncultivated 
man. And to think that this gentleman^ this officer, this 
Colonel de Crespigney, should have so forgotten his 
honor ! This guardian should have so betrayed his trust 
as to seize and hold me powerless and kiss me on my 
lips in spite of all my struggles and distress ! Oh, the 
meanness of the act ! the meanness of the act ! No, I 
can never trust him again. I can never bear to see his 
face again. I will not spend another day in his house. 
But where, oh, where shall I fly ? I have no place in 
the world to go to ! Or, if I had, there is no place to 
which he would not follow me — not to compel my 
return, though as my guardian he could do that. But 
he would not ; he would do even worse ; he would so 


Gloria, 


216 


humble himself to me, would so plead with me, would 
look so heart-broken, that he would be sure to prevail 
with me and coax me back. Oh, Heaven ! oh. Heaven ! 
if I cannot trust him, neither can I trust myself. I hate 
him, and I fear him, and yet I pity him and love him, 
too ! And who knows but that in some moment of 
idiotic pity I may not consent to all he pleads for and 
contract this repulsive marriage ? Then I should go 
mad and murder him, or kill myself. That is what I 
am afraid of. That gulf of black ruin ! What shall I 
do ? Oh, what shall I do ? Where can I fly from him 
and from myself? Who will save me from myself 
and from him ? Oh, what shall I do ?” 

She leaned her head upon her hand and reflected 
intently for some minutes, but could think of no plan by 
which to escape. 

Suddenly, without any volition of her own will, there 
flowed into her soul an inspiration. She started and 
raised her head as one listening to a suggestion. Her 
cheeks flushed and paled, and flushed again, and her 
eyes brightened as she arose and exclaimed : 

“ Yes, I will ! I will do it ! I will marry David 
Lindsay. I will put one pure, good, brave man 
between me and the Evil ! I do not care though he is 
poor and rough. I know he is good and true, noble and 
honorable ! No gentleman in the land is more so. I 
can trust David Lindsay — trust him utterly. He 
would never kiss me against my will — never wound or 
offend me in any way. Yes, I will marry my old play- 
mate, David Lindsay, and we will keep house in earnest 
as we used to do in fun. And then I shall be free — free 
as air — for I know that by the terms of my father’s will, 
my guardian’s power over me and my estate ceases on 


Glorias Rage, 


217 


the day of my marriage. I know it, for I have often 
heard Aunt Agrippina say how thoughtless it was in 
my father to make such a proviso in his will. ‘ For 
suppose,’ she would say, ‘ some fortune-hunter should 
marry the child, you have no power to prevent it, or to 
withhold her estates.’ That is the way I found it out. 
And I am glad it is so, for now 1 can marry David 
Lindsay, and enrich dear Dame Lindsay, and let them 
take me to one of my own fine houses and live with me 
in comfort. Or David might go to Harvard or Yale, 
and get the college training he has so long aspired to, 
and leave Dame Lindsay to take care of me. I will do 
it at once !” 

It is wonderful how swiftly the mind acts under 
excitement. This whole plan swept through the mind 
of Gloria in a few minutes succeeding the first inspira- 
tion of the idea. 

She did not now hesitate for an instant. She dressed 
herself quickly, and in the best and warmest suit she 
possessed. I said that she always dressed in the style 
of an old woman rather than that of a young girl. Now 
she put on a black velvet suit, a seal-skin sack and hat. 
The hat was the only girlish article she wore. Finally 
she drew on her brown kid gloves, took her muff and 
started for the door. But before she opened it she 
remembered that she would need more personal effects 
than she wore ; so she laid down her muff, drew off her 
gloves, and went and found and packed a small Russian 
leather traveling-bag that had been her companion on 
her tour through Europe. This she hung upon her 
arm, then taking her muff, she left the room. 

On reaching the landing at the foot of the stairs she 


2i8 


Gloria. 


found Lamia engaged in brightening the knobs of the 
parlor doors. 

Where is your master ?” she inquired of the girl. 

“ In de liberary, a tearin’ up and down de room like 
Old Black Sam was into him — ^beggin’ yer pardon for 
sa5dn' ob sich things, Miss Glo’. Does you want me 
to go and tell him you’d like to see him ’fore you goes 
out ?” 

No, not at all,” replied the young lady. 

“ Well, where shall I say you is gone, if he ax me. 
Miss Glo' ?” 

“ Tell him that I have gone to take a long walk, and 
he is not to wait dinner for me.” 

“ And when shall I say you’ll be back. Miss Glo’ ?” 

“ You needn’t tell him when, for I don’t know myself.” 

“ Well, so as you gets back 'fore sun-down, I s’pose 
marse will be satisfied,” said the unsuspicious girl, as 
she resumed her rubbing of the brass knob then under 
her hand. 

Gloria then left the house to hasten on her mad 
errand. 

She walked rapidly, like one still acting under a high 
pressure of excitement. 

She reached the boat-house, which was no longer kept 
locked. She passed through it and went out upon the 
beach, for it was now low tide. 

There she found a little boat that she had sometimes 
been in the habit of rowing, near the shore. 

Now she got into it, put down her hand-bag and her 
muff, unhooked the boat-chain and threw it ashore, took 
the oar and pushed the boat off the sands, then seated 
herself and rowed for the little sandy island. The 
water was perfectly smooth, and her arms were braced 


Glorias Rage, 


219 


by a strange, tense resolve. She sped swiftly over the 
intervening half mile, and in ten minutes reached her 
destination. She drew in her oar, and using it as a pole 
struck it into the sands and pushed the boat up on the 
beach. 

Then she picked up her hand-bag and muff and 
sprang ashore. 

For a moment she stood still, looking all around for a 
chance sight of David Lindsay ; for maddened as she 
was at this moment, there was ‘‘ method ” enough in 
that “ madness ” to make her unwilling to go on to the 
cottage and meet the placid, steady, conscientious Dame 
Lindsay. 

She soon descried the young fisherman. He was 
standing on the shore at some distance, bending over an 
upturned boat, engaged in repairing it. His position 
prevented him from seeing, and the sound of his own 
hammer from hearing her approach, of which he 
remained quite unconscious even when she stood by his 
side. 

She had nerved herself for the trial before her, yet now 
it seemed as if all the blood had forsaken her extrem- 
ities and curdled about her heart, so pallid was her face. 

She stood for a moment at his side while he continued 
to hammer industriously at his work, quite unconscious 
of her presence, until she spoke to him in a low tone. 

“ David Lindsay.” 

He started, dropped his hammer, turned, took off his 
hat, and stood waiting her commands. He had not 
seen her since the morning after he had saved her life, 
and now he was too much amazed at her sudden appear- 
ance on the isle to find any word by which to welcome 


220 


Glo7^{a. 


her. He could merely wait for her to make known the 
object of her visit. 

For some moments she too continued silent. It 
seemed to her that it must take her life to utter the 
words which she had come resolved to speak, and with 
which this story opened : 

“ David Lindsay, will you marry me ?” 

It is not necessary to go over any part of that scene 
already related. It must be still fresh in the minds of 
our readers. 

Well might the young fisherman be struck dumb with 
amazement and terror ; well might his half palsied 
tongue refuse to utter any word but her own name, and 
that in a tone of unbounded consternation ; for must 
not the lovely girl and wealthy heiress have lost her 
reason before making a proposal of marriage to any 
man, least of all to him— the poor, uncultivated young 
laborer ? And when he had heard all that she had to 
say, well might he groan forth, in tones of deepest 
sorrow : 

Miss de la Vera, it is you who are mad !” 

“‘Mad!’ ‘Mad!’” she echoed, her face reflecting 
the dismay so plainly revealed on his own countenance. 
“ ‘ Mad !’ Oh, indeed, perhaps I am ! But oh, David 
Lindsay, if I am mad, so much the more need have I of 
your protection ! If I am mad, oh, my old playmate, 
marry the poor mad girl to take care of her, to save her 
from herself, to save her from something worse than 
madness ! to save her from sin ! from crime ! from 
murder ! from suicide !” she exclaimed, her vehemence 
and wild excitement increasing with every word. 

“ Great Heavens, Miss de la Vera ! What has 
happened to drive you to this extremity ?” cried the 


Gloria! s Rage. 


221 


young man, turning deadly pale, in dread of he knew 
not what. “ Tell me all ! Everything, freely ! You 
know that my heart is yours — my life is at your feet, to 
do your will with ! You know that I would do anything 
on earth you wish me to do, unless it would he to do 
you any wrong. Now you plead with me to do that 
which would make this world a paradise to me, unless 
it should make it a purgatory to you. Now tell me all. 
But first sit down. You are trembling so that you can 
scarcely stand,” he added, as he threw off his pea jacket, 
folded it and laid it on the overturned boat, to make 
her a comfortable seat. 

She sank down, machanically, too absorbed in the 
subject of her thoughts to notice how he had exposed 
himself to the cold for her convenience. 

That she might speak with the less embarrassment, 
he stood a little behind her. And then, with her eyes 
fixed upon the ground, she told him all ! And she 
ended with these words — fearful words for her to speak 
and for her old playmate to hear : 

“And, oh, David Lindsay! you know how I always 
loved my uncle ! loved him with the holy, tender, caress- 
ing love of a child for its father ! And I love him so 
still ! And I do pity him infinitely, because he suffers, 
and has always suffered so much I But, oh ! when he 
wants to marry me, I hate him, oh, I hate him with the 
hate of a demon ! I could kill him at such times I I 
could ! I sometimes dream that I have married him 
and murdered him, and am flying from justice ! or that 
I am in a condemned cell, or on the scaffold, and I wake 
in a cold sweat of terror and horror. And it may come 
to this, David Lindsay ! It may come to this unless 
you save me I I can trust you, my old playmate, I can 


222 


Gloria, 


trust you utterly ! And to whom could I fly but to 
you ? Who knows me so well as you ? To whom am I 
so well known ? Whom have I on earth but you, David 
Lindsay ? Do not stand behind me ! Come around 
here and let me see you,” she concluded, slightly turn- 
ing her head. 

“ God forgive me if I do wrong ! God forgive me if 
this great temptation blinds me to the right !” mur- 
mured the young man as he left his position behind her 
seat. 

And then — not because she was a high-born heiress 
stooping to him, a poor fisherman — no indeed, for there 
was nothing abject in David Lindsay’s nature ; but 
because she was a young girl driven to humiliation as 
unprecedented as it was undeserved — he came and 
humbled himself before her, sank on his knees at her 
feet, took her hand, bowed his forehead upon it and 
said : 

“ See me here at your bidding. I am your own, your 
slave, to do your will in everything. Tell me what to 
do !” 

“ Oh, David Lindsay, rise and sit beside me,” she 
murmured, with the tears springing to her eyes. 

He obeyed her and waited for her further words. 

“ Take me away from here at once, David Lindsay ! 
Take me to Washington, where we can be married. 
Then to my own house of Gryphynshold ! There I 
shall be safe ! You know where that is ?” 

In Virginia — yes.” 

“ Take me there, and from that place communicate 
with my guardian, who must then come to a settlement 
and yield up all authority over me, or my estate ; for 
such were the terms of my father’s will.” 


Glorias Rage, 223 


“ The steamboat from Norfolk to Washington will 
stop at La Compte’s Landing this afternoon. If we 
cross about now we will be sure to meet it," said the 
young man. 

“ Then go and get ready for your journey at once, 
David Lindsay. I will sit here and wait for you. But 
what will Granny Lindsay say to your sudden depart- 
ure ? And, oh, what will she do, here by herself t I 
never thought of that before," said the girl, compunc- 
tiously. 

Do not distress yourself, lady. All things work 
together for your will to-day ; for this morning my 
grandmother left home for the first time in many years, 
and for an absence of some days," replied the young 
man. 

“ Granny Lindsay from home !" exclaimed Gloria, in 
surprise, not unmixed with a feeling of relief. 

“ Yes, she is gone to St. Inigoes to keep house for the 
brethren until they can procure another housekeeper in 
place of the one recently deceased. You know they 
will not take one under sixty years of age," added 
David, gravely. 

“ Oh, I am so glad she will not be left alone here !" 
exclaimed Gloria. 

Come up to the house, then, will you not, and rest in 
granny’s room, while I go in my roost and make ready ?" 

Gloria silently arose and followed him. 

When they entered the neat room, David placed a 
chair for his young guest, then put the brands of fire 
together on the hearth, kindled them to a blaze, and 
hung the tea-kettle over it. 

“ Why do you take that trouble ?" she inquired. 

“ You must have a cup of tea before you go. It will 


224 


Gloria. 


not take any extra time, since the kettle will come tc a 
boil while I am getting ready,” he replied, as he went 
lip the ladder stairs that led through the trap-door to 
his own loft. 

Gloria heard him walking to and fro, as he made his 
preparations for the unexpected journey. She, on her 
part, could not sit still. She felt as if she were in one of 
her nightmare dreams from which she could not wake. 
And again she felt as if she were going mad. 

A sweet, homely household sound aroused her 
from this morbid mood. It was the singing of the tea- 
kettle over the fire. A happy thought came to her. 
She would play housewife for David Lindsay this once 
before leaving the cottage. She had spent days enough 
in the little place to know where all the stores were 
kept. 

So she went first to the corner cupboard with the 
glass door, and opened it and found the little black tea- 
pot and the tin tea-cannister, and made the tea and set 
it to draw. 

Then she drew out the little, red-stained pine table, 
found the white cloth, and the buck-handled knives and 
forks and the plated spoons in the drawer, and arranged 
them, then took the cups and saucers and plates from the 
corner cupboard, and finally she went out to the “ safe ” 
in the shed, to which in her childhood’s days she had 
so often followed Dame Lindsay, and found bread, but- 
ter, milk and cold meat, all of which she brought and 
put upon the table. 

When her self-assumed task was completed, she sat 
down to wait, but felt too restless to sit long. Soon she 
arose and began to pace up and down the floor, when 
David Lindsay descended the ladder stairs, equipped 









THE STEAMKK WAS PUFFING ITS WAY TOWARO THE WHARF. Page 228 


-w 








'« I 


.Tf 0 

r*Q)fe- ' .'-.^ ■ 

•• ■ , i »"i • j iM 






iSESal 




ur'i- 




• '!' v,'\*^ * 


•■i 


JP 


♦ ■• s 


--O -TVC^f ■ 

-Ni i 

•r p ‘ 4 . f « 




A t.; 


- 




.4 




IT ^ . :■' 
^ . Mt 




«*’ 


-V -T 


•» 


1J4 


'.=J- 


a 


fe- 






r . 


« • < 


m 


i. . 


.■<f^ *• V 






fl 


c' - i •> 5c 
V' 

^ K- 

- • »■ ( u. ^• 




■^'^I 


'll V- 


, r 

1 






’Jt. 




% ■ v-»'<'^'-‘ f^^JT < 


«'- -J^wv ,. 


■>c 


— • • 


. 


^ V -t 


Tr,. 




•\ 


* 


L<, 




• ►' 


spra 

I M ' .♦Tr 




% V 


•i 




Yr^ 






»<t ; AjR > i #C 

i. * rul 


» . < 




t 


225 


Glorious Rage. 


for his journey, and carrying a large, black oil-skin bag 
in his hand. 

“ Ah ! why did you weary yourself with this work, 
lady ? I should soon have done it for you,” he said, as 
he glanced at the completed preparations for a meal. 

“ Well, I wanted to do it. It is not the first time I 
have set the table for you and me, is it, David Lindsay ? 
Don’t you remember our little dinners, cooked with a 
driftwood fire on the beach ? Don’t you remember the 
flat stone we used to have for a table, and the crash 
towel for a tablecloth ?” 

Do I not?'* he asked, as a warm smile irradiated 
his face. This was the first time she had seen him 
smile since her sudden appearance on the island. 

“ Come and sit down, then, and I will pour out the 
tea.” 

They placed themselves at the table, upon which she 
had already set the tea-pot. They made some pre- 
tence of eating and drinking, and then Gloria inquired : 

“ Have we time to put everything in order before we 
go ?” 

“ Oh, yes,” responded the young man, “ quite time 
enough.” 

And together they went to work and cleared away 
the table, and washed and replaced the dishes. 

Next they took all the meat and bread and fish that 
was in the house and put it out in the shed, so that 
Priscilla and Nicholas, the cat and dog, might have 
something to eat during the week of Granny Lindsay’s 
absence. 

Then David Lindsay covered up the fire, and locked 
up the house, all except the door by which they 
would go out. 


226 


Gloria, 


“ Ah ! suppose Granny ^Lindsay should come back 
very soon ?” said Gloria. 

“ She will not come back before I have time to 
write her a letter, inclosed in one to the priest, and tell- 
ing them both all about our position,” said David 
Lindsay. 

That is all, then. I believe I have no other anxiety,” 
said Gloria, as they left the house together. 

David Lindsay walked in advance, carrying his own 
large bag in one hand, and Gloria’s little one in the 
other. 

Gloria followed, with her hands in her muff, and so 
they reached the sands where she had landed. 

“ We shall have to use your boat, lady dear, since 
mine lies bottom upward on the beach, waiting for 
repairs,” he said, as he placed the two bags in the skiff 
and handed his companion to a seat in the stern. 

“ It is uncle’s boat ; but we can send it back by a man 
from La Compte’s Landing,” replied Gloria, as her 
escort took the oars and laid himself stoutly to them. 

They first crossed the water to a landing on the 
main opposite the little island. David Lindsay pushed 
the boat up on the sands, and beckoned to an old 
negro man who was seen standing in the open door 
of his hut, and commissioned him or his wife to go 
across to the island every day to attend to the needs 
of Winny, the cow, and to the pig and the poultry ; 
and gave them the use of all the milk and eggs until 
Dame Lindsay’s return. 

Then he pushed off and rowed away from the place. 

La Compte’s Landing lay two miles down the coast, 
and it took a half hour’s hard rowing to reach its wharf 
and boat-house on the sands. Above these the land, cov- 


Gloria s Rage, 


227 


ered with a thicket of trees, rose abruptly for several 
hundred feet. From the midst of the trees on the sum- 
mit might be seen the chimneys and peaked roof of La 
Compte’s Lodge, and, farther down, the steeple of St. 
Luke’s church. 

“ This is my place also, David Lindsay, and it will 
soon be our place. But I would not live here. It is too 
near the Promontory,” said Gloria, as they landed. 

An old negro man stood by the flagstaff. 

** Gwine to take de boat, sar ?” he inquired of the 
young man. 

“ Yes,” answered the latter. 

Whereupon the negro ran up the red flag. That was 
the signal for the steamboat to stop for passengers. 

“ Dey’s so few folks trabelin’ by water dis ’clement 
season ob de year dat it ’most don’t seem much use to 
’ploy a flagman to come down yer twice a week to ’tend 
it. But dey do tell me, better come ten times for noffin 
dan to let one passenger be disappointed.” 

“ But couldn’t passengers hoist the flag for them- 
selves !” inquired the young man. 

“ Dem as understood could ; but it ain’t ebery 
stranger as comes down here to take de boat what knows 
dey is got to raise de flag. An’ less de flag is riz, de 
boat won’t stop, when it ain’t got nobody on board to 
land here. And now, young marse, de boat’ll be here 
in a foo minutes.” 

David, dear, come here, please,” said Gloria, walking 
off to a little distance. 

He followed her and she placed in his hand a well- 
filled pocket-book. 

“ What is this for ?” he inquired. 

For our expenses. I forgot to hand it to you 


228 


Gloria. 


before ; forgot even that it would be needed ; but you 
had better take it now^ before we go on the boat.” 

He flushed crimson to the very edge of his black hair, 
as he gave her back the pocket-book and said : 

“ No, lady, dear, I do not need it, indeed ; I have saved 
something from years of labor, and I have plenty for 
our present needs.” 

It was now Gloria’s time to blush. 

“ I beg your pardon, David Lindsay ; I did not know, 
indeed I did not mean — ” 

But he interrupted her by lifting her gloved Angers 
to his lips, bowing over them, and leading her back to 
the wharf. Then he went to the old flagman, and giv- 
ing him some money, engaged his services to take back 
Colonel de Crespigney’s boat to the Promontory pier, 
and leave it there. 

By this time the steamer was seen puffing its way 
towards the wharf. 

In a few minutes it drew alongside and stopped. 

A plank was thrown across to them and the two pas- 
sengers went on board. 

A few minutes more, and the steamer was blowing 
her way up the bay for the mouth of the Potomac 
River. 

You shall never repent this if my life can help it, 
lady, dear — though it is for you ‘ a leap in the dark,’ ” 
whispered David Lindsay to the grave-faced child that 
leaned upon his arm, as they stood alone together on the 
deck of the steamboat. 

“ No,” said Gloria ; “ it is not a leap in the dark — it is 
a spring into liberty and light.” 



CHAPTER XVII. 

WED. 

Tis sure some dream, some vision vain, 

What I, the child of rank and wealth. 

Am I the wretch that wears this chain ? 

G. M. L. 

The sky was gray, the wind high, and the sea rough, 
yet David and Gloria remained on deck. He had led 
her to a bench behind the wheel-house, and there they 
sat, partly sheltered from the blast. 

As the old flagman had truly said, there were not 
many travelers by the steamboat at this inclement 
season of the year — only a few country tradesmen, 
picked up at different points along the shores of the 
bay, who were taking time by the forelock and going 
to the Northern cities to purchase their spring goods. 

All these were total strangers to Gloria and David ; 
and as they lounged or sauntered, talking politics or 
smoking pipes, to and fro from stem to stem, on the 
deck, they scarcely bestowed a glance upon the young 
pair, seated behind the wheel-house, who, indeed, kept 
themselves aloof from all their fellow-passengers, until 
the ringing of the tea-bell brought them all down 
together into the ill-lighted saloon. 



Gloria, 


230 


Here Gloria found herself the only lady at the table, 
with a dozen or more men, officers and passengers all 
counted ; but as the motion of the steamboat was now 
very rough, she took it for granted that all the other 
ladies who might be on board were confined to their 
berths by sea-sickness. 

After tea the young couple returned to the deck, but 
found the weather too blustering for the girl ; so they 
went again to the saloon, but found that the table had 
been cleared of the tea-service, and the men had 
gathered about it in parties of four to play cards, smoke 
and drink ; so finally they went to the companion-way 
leading below, and there David Lindsay bid Gloria good- 
night, for there was no admittance for him in the 
Ladies’ Cabin. 

When she reached this sanctuary she found that she 
was the only woman on board the steamer, with the 
exception of the stewardess. 

This latter came to proffer her services to the young 
lady. She was a wonderfully tall, black and spare 
specimen of the negro race. A striped gown and a high 
turban added to her unusual altitude. 

“ ’Ebenin, Miss. Well, as yer’s de only lady here, yer 
kin hab fus’ choice of dese here staterooms on each side 
de cabin,” she said. 

“ Is there any difference ?” inquired the girl with a 
smile. 

“ Some is double and some is single, and dem in de 
middle is straight, and next to de stairs is crooked.” 

“ Well, you shall choose for me.” 

“ Den I ’vise you to take a double one in de middle.” 

Thanks,” said Gloria. She did not then go into the 


Wed. 


231 


selected state-room, but sat down in the rocking-chair 
and put her feet to the fire in the stove. 

“ Reckon yer’s gwine back to school in de city arter 
the Christmas holidays ?” ventured the stewardess. 

Ro,” replied the young lady. 

‘‘Den yer’s gwine long your pappy to buy goods 
maybe ?” 

“ No.” 

“ To visit yer ’lations, den ?” 

“ No.” 

“ Well, what on de face ob de yeth is yer gwine for V* 
bluntly inquired the stewardess. 

“ On business,” good-humoredly replied the girl. 

“ Oh !” said the woman. 

There was silence for a few minutes, and then the 
woman began to murmur, partly to herself : ' 

“ Now I wonder what business can call a young gal 
to town at this unlawful season ob de wintry wedder in 
a cold steamboat ?” 

As the young lady did not reply to this, the woman 
felt driven to say, more decidedly : 

“ You looks moughty youngish for de like ob sich, 
and I’d eben fink as yer ma or aunt would be goin’ wid 
you ; but is yer gwine to buy yer weddin’ close 

“ Perhaps,” said Gloria. 

“ Dere ! I did guess it, arter all !” triumphantly 
exclaimed the woman. 

Then to stop further examination, Gloria determined 
to turn the tables by questioning the questioner. 

“ What is your name, auntie ?” she hastened to inquire. 

“ La weeny Long, dough dey do mostly call me Long 
Laweeny, ’cause, yer see, honey, I is ober six feet tall 
which can’t be said for all the men, let alone wimmin. 


232 


Gloria, 


Lay-wee-ny Long, honey ! One ob de La Compte col- 
ored ladies, honey, and been runnin’ stewardess long o’ 
Cappin Bright ebber since my mist’ess died.” 

“ You are Lavinia, one of the La Compte colored peo- 
ple ?” questioned Gloria, in surprise. 

“ Hi, what I tell yer ? Yes, honey, one ob de La 
Compte colored ladies, I is. My mist’ess was Miss 
Eleano La Compte, what married a speckled foreigner, 
which he was a great man in his own country, too, I 
b’liebe ! Howseber, he’s dead, and so is she, and lef 
one only darter an’ heiress, my present young mist’ess, 
dough I hab nebber seed her — Miss Delia Werry.” 

“ Miss de la Vera, do you mean ?” 

“ Yes, honey, dat’s zactly what I said. Miss Delia 
Werry. Does yer know her, honey ?” 

“Not very well,” replied Gloria, with a smile. “ At 
least, I may say with truth that I don’t know much 
good of her.” 

“Now, look here, young gal !” wrathfully exclaimed 
Long Laweeny, “ don’t you go a back -bitin’ my young 
mist’ess behind her back ! Now, I tell yer good, don’t 
you ! She’s my young mist’ess, she is, and what harm 
does you know of her, pray ? Dere, now, what harm 
does you know of her ?” 

“ I did not say that I knew any harm of her ; and, 
moreover, if it will give you any satisfaction, auntie, I 
can tell you that I love Miss de la Vera very much, 
very much more than any one else in the world, I am 
afraid.” 

“ Den I’m glad yer does. But what make yer say yer 
don’t know no good o’ she? inquired the woman, 
doubtfully. 

“ Oh, I was jesting, you see, only jesting ; for I have 


Wed. 


233 


as much respect for Miss de la Vera as 1 have for 
myself.” 

“ Den yer mus’ know her right well ?” 

“ No, I’m sure I don’t, not half as well as I would like 
to know her. But now — you say you belong to the 
estate. How comes it then that you are here as 
stewardess on this steamboat ?” 

‘‘ Hi, honey, ’cause dere ain’t been no use for me at 
de house since de ’stablishment was broked up, arter 
old Marse Cappin La Compte died, an’ de young ladies 
went to Washington to lib long o’ deir gardeen. Dat 
was about twenty years ago, honey. And all we young 
women servants what belonged to de house was hired 
out at warious places, and only two or free old grannies 
left to look arter //, dough all de men — field hands and 
fishermen and blacksmiths and carpenters, yer know, 
honey — was left on de ’state, ’cause deir work was to be 
done, whedder or no, fambily or no fambily.” 

“ And have you been twenty years in this service ?” 

No, honey, not quite. Only ’bout seben, I reckon. 
I was hired out at private service before that.” 

“ Do you like this life ?” 

I used to, honey, but I’s gettin’ tired of it. An’ I’s 
wishin’ for the time to come when my young mist’ess. 
Miss Delia Werry, will come ob age or get married, 
so as to come and lib at home, an’ hab her colored 
people about her like oder ladies, I do.” 

Gloria felt extremely interested in this old family- 
servant of her ancestors whom she had so unexpectedly 
met in the cabin of the steamboat, and so, without 
revealing her own identity to the woman, she encour- 
aged her to talk of La Compte’s Landing and the old 
people who had lived there in times past. And as 


234 


Gloria. 


“ Long Laweeny ” had so interested a listener she 
became very diffuse in her revelations. 

‘‘ They do say, Miss, that the first founder ob de 
family in dese parts was a brave ole sea-king, what his 
inimies and back-biters called a booknear or pirate, and 
how he buried whole shiploads of gold and silver about 
dese dere shores an’ islands, which, if dat same treasure 
would be foun’, it would make de people what owns de 
Ian’s as rich as Tews. But I don’t know as to de trufe 
of it.” 

These and many other tales and legends of the old 
family did Long Laweeny relate to her attentive 
listener, and so whiled away the time until a late hour, 
when Gloria thanked the woman for the entertainment 
and retired to her state-room. 

Though the mind of the girl was deeply disturbed by 
the novelty of her present position, and the uncertainty 
of her future fate, she did not lie long awake, but rocked 
by .the motion of the boat, soon fell sound asleep and 
slept profoundly until she was awakened by the move- 
ments of the stewardess bustling about the cabin and 
setting it in order. 

On first opening her eyes she felt surprise and fear 
on finding herself in the berth of a state-room on a 
rocking steamboat ; but instantly she remembered the 
rash step that had placed her in this position, and her 
soul was filled with dismay. For a moment she 
repented her reckless flight, and contemplated remaining 
on the steamer under the protection of Long Laweeny, 
and returning with it on its next down voyage to her 
home. Only for a moment did she think of such an 
alternative to going on and completing her other pur- 


Wed. 


235 


pose. The vision of her uncle and his importunities 
frightened her from all idea of going back. 

“ No !” she said to herself, “ I cannot trust him. I 
can trust David Lindsay.” 

In the spirit of this trust she met her old playmate on 
deck. 

He, too, had had his deep sleep of oblivion and 
his wakening to astonishment and perplexity. But no 
instant’s doubt of his future course disturbed his mind ; 
he was devoted to his lady’s service, and determined to 
do her will. In this spirit of loyalty he received her on 
deck. 

The wind had shifted to the northwest and cleared 
the sky of every cloud ; but it was now blowing dead 
ahead, and so the boat had both wind and current 
against her, and her upward progress was slow. 

Gloria and David had spent the day on deck, only 
leaving it to go to breakfast, dinner and supper in the 
saloon. 

After supper they separated, as before, at the head of 
the companion-way leading down into the ladies’ cabin, 
where Gloria spent the evening in drawing out Long 
Laweeny to talk of the old La Comptes until bed-time, 
when she retired to her berth. The same evening 
David spent in talking to the officer of the deck until 
the hour came which relieved the latter, and drew the 
former to the saloon state-room, which he shared with a 
country storekeeper. 

It was sunset when she entered the mouth of the 
Potomac, and near daylight when she reached Wash- 
ington. 

When Gloria awoke that morning the first thing that 
struck her was the stillness of the steamer, and the next 


236 


Gloria. 


a small fleet of oyster-boats, a crowded wharf, and a 
row of dingy warehouses — all seen through the window 
of her state-room as soon as she slid back the shutter. 

Then she dressed quickly, for she knew the boat was 
at Washington. 

But again she was seized with that panic of dread 
which had temporarily overcome her on her awakening 
on the previous morning. Again she felt the impulse 
to fly from her purpose and return to her home while 
there was yet time. But the vision of her uncle in his 
madness arose before her mind’s eye and checked her 
impulse. 

“No, I cannot trust him ! I cannot trust myself ! 
but I can trust David Lindsay !” she said, as she com- 
pleted her toilet, put her little personal effects into her 
traveling-bag, and went up on deck. 

David Lindsay received her there and led her at once 
to the saloon, where the passengers were already at 
breakfast. She, being the only lady, received much 
attention. Her seat had been kept for her, and dain- 
ties were pressed upon her ; but so troubled was her 
spirit at the prospect of her fate, that she could only 
swallow a little coffee and make a pretence of eating. 

When the counterfeit meal was over, she arose from 
the table, bowed to her fellow- passengers, and left the 
saloon, attended by David Lindsay. 

“We may go on shore at once. I had already engaged 
a carriage when you first came on deck,” said the young 
man, as he led her across the gang-plank from the 
wharf, where the hack was waiting. 

He handed her in, saw her comfortably seated, and 
followed and placed himself opposite to her. 

“ Where to, if you please, sir ?” inquired the hackman. 


Wed. 


237 


touching his hat, as he held the door open in his 
hand. 

“ Wait a moment,” replied young Lindsay ; and then 
he bent forward and whispered to Gloria : 

“ You have been here before, and know the place. 
What hotel do you prefer ?” 

“ Uncle and I stopped at Brown’s. It was good 
enough, I suppose. I know nothing about the others, 
except that some of them looked better on the outside,” 
replied Gloria. 

“ Brown’s Hotel,” was the order the young man gave 
to the hack-driver, who remounted to his box and drove 
off. 

David Lindsay had never been in any city in his life, 
and, therefore, he was much more pleased with his first 
sight of Washington than strangers usually are. 

“ There is the Capitol !” he exclaimed, looking out of 
the window on the east side. “ I know it by the 
picture, which is very faithful,” he added. 

“Yes,” replied Gloria, scarcely knowing what she 
said, so troubled was her spirit. 

The youth looked at her wistfully, doubtfully, sorrow- 
fully. Then he dropped his eyes and voice to the deep- 
est expression of reverential tenderness, and said : 

“ Miss de la Vera, do you repent this trust you are 
about to repose in me ? If you do, oh, speak ! I am 
yours to do you service. To secure your happiness in 
any way I may be permitted to do so ! To attend you 
all through life, if I may be so blessed— or, if not, to 
take you safely wherever you would go, and leave you 
forever, if this should be your will,” he added as his 
voice broke down with emotion. 

She answered him by asking another question : 


238 


Gloria. 


“ David Lindsay, do you really love me — love me as 
you said you did that morning after you saved my life, 
when you did not know I heard you ? Say, do you 
really love me as much as you said then ?” she breathed, 
in accents scarcely audible. 

“ Do I love you ? How do I love you ? How can I 
tell you ! I have no words to tell you ! But I know 
that I could live for you, work for you, suffer for you, 
yes. Heaven knows, I could give my body to be burned 
for you, if that could insure your welfare. And because 
I love you so much more than I can tell you, I repeat 
now that I am yours to do your will, whatever it may 
be ; yours to attend you through life if I am to be so 
happy, or yours to take you to some place of safety 
wherever you would go, and leave you there forever, at 
your command. Dearest lady, you have only to com- 
mand.” 

She was weeping heartily now. 

He gently repeated his words : 

“You have only to command.” 

“I cannot — command — anybody ! Not even myself !” 
she sobbed. 

“ What shall I do to console you ? Did I not hear 
that Madame de Crespigney, the colonel’s old mother, 
was in Washington ? Shall I inquire for her and take you 
there, and leave you under her protection ?” he asked, 
turning pale at the thought of what her answer might 
be, though no other sign, not even a falter in his voice, 
betrayed his inward agitation. 

“ No !” exclaimed Gloria. “ Take me there ? Why 
uncle would follow me. He would not compel me to 
return with him, but he would persuade me. Uncle 
masters my will when he pleads with me, and if I return 


Wed. 


239 


to his power he may some time, in some paroxysm of 
his own distress, in some moment of my own idiotic 
pity, induce me to become his wife, and then, when I 
should have done so, I should go mad, and kill him or 
myself. No — no — no ! I must put an eternal barrier 
between uncle and myself. David Lindsay, I cannot 
trust my uncle. I cannot trust myself. I can only 
trust you. Say no more about taking me anywhere 
but before some minister of the gospel. And ” — (“ don’t 
make me do all the courting,” she was about to add, 
but some subtile intuition warned her that she must not 
turn her tragic situation into jest, even with her trusted 
and faithful friend.) 

The carriage, meanwhile, had rolled on to Pennsyl- 
vania Avenue, and now it drew up before “ Brown’s.” 

“Tell him to drive to the Ladies’ Entrance,” 
whispered Gloria, who saw that she would have to 
prompt her untraveled escort. 

The order was given and obeyed. 

David handed his companion down to the pavement, 
and paid and discharged the carriage. 

“ Ask to be shown to the ladies’ parlor. I can remain 
there until you go and find some minister, and — yes, it 
will be necessary for you to get a license from the 
register’s office at the City Hall,” she continued, in a 
whisper, as they followed an obsequious waiter to an 
upper front drawing-room that overlooked the avenue. 

Gloria threw herself into a chair. There happened 
to be no other occupants of the parlor, though people, 
either the inmates of the house or visitors, might enter 
at any time. 

“Will you want rooms, sir ? The office is below,” 
suggested the waiter. 


240 


. Gloria. 


David Lindsay hesitated and looked at Gloria, who 
murmured : 

“No, do not take rooms yet. You would have to 
register our names, and that would be awkward just 
now. Wait until afterwards.” 

“ We do not want rooms, but will take luncheon about 
noon,” said the young man, turning to the waiter, who 
then left them and went about his business. 

“ How will you occupy yourself while I am gone?” 
inquired David Lindsay, uneasily. 

“ Oh, you needn’t be away half an hour. I shall stand 
here and look out of the window,” she answered, taking 
up her post. 

The young man left the room. 

She did not stand there long, for again some nameless 
horror of her position, and dread of consequences, 
seized upon her soul, and drove her to walking rapidly 
up and down the floor, muttering to herself : 

“Was ever a wretched human being driven to such 
extremity as I am ? Is there any way out of my trouble 
except through this strange marriage, and am I, all this 
time, so insane, as I suspect I am, that I cannot see it ? 
Even David Lindsay proposed to take me to old 
Madame de Crespigney, and David Lindsay worships 
me, poor boy, that I know ! But I cannot go to Madame 
de Crespigney ! I cannot go anywhere where Marcel 
could follow me and subdue me by his pleadings, and 
draw me to my own destruction and to his ! I cannot 
trust Marcel ! I cannot trust myself ! I can only trust 
David Lindsay ! And he is no clown, if he is a poor 
flsherman ! See how he has improved himself. He 
talks as well as uncle does, though he may not be able 
to speak on so many different subjects. But, oh 


Wed. 


241 


Heaven, what is all this to the main question ? That I 
should be obliged to marry any one to save myself from 
uncle and from my own heart ! I don’t want to marry ! 
I don’t ! I don’t ! I don’t ! I never did wish to marry ! 
I never meant to, either ! But — if I must, I would 
rather trust David Lindsay than any one I know.” 

So, muttering to herself, she paced rapidly up and 
down the floor until the entrance of other ladies into 
this public parlor arrested her murmuring complaints, 
though not her steps, for she continued to walk about 
the floor, stopping only once in a while to look out of 
the windows. 

Several of the occupants of the room noticed the pale, 
sorrowful, and restless “ child,” for such they took her 
to be, and formed their own theories of her distress. 
She was doubtless on her way to school, after her 
Christmas holidays, and was suffering from the separa- 
tion from home and friends. But these people had 
their own affairs on their minds, and so could bestow 
but little attention on the troubles of the supposed 
homesick school-girl, whom they hoped to see presently 
taken care of by her parent, or guardian, dr some other 
responsible person who had come with her as her 
escort. * 

For more than an hour Gloria walked restlessly about, 
or gazed from the front windows, while people came 
and went to and from the room, whose occupants were 
thus always changing. 

Then at length David Lindsay returned. She drew 
him to a distant window, out of the hearing of all others, 
that he might give an account of himself. 

I was longer than you thought I should be, because 
I had to wait some time in the register’s office before I 


242 


Gloria. 


could get our license. Afterwards I had to inquire out 
the residences of clergymen, and I called at several 
before I could find any one disengaged. At length I 
found one at leisure — the Rev. Mr. O’Halloran, at St. 
Matthew’s church. He will meet us there immedi- 
ately,” whispered David Lindsay. 

Gloria began to tremble visibly. 

“ Are you ready ?” inquired the young man. 

“ YevS,” she answered, in a tone scarcely above her 
breath. 

He gave her his arm and led her forth, down the 
stairs and out of the house, to the carriage that stood 
waiting for them before the door. 

In another moment they were bowling rapidly up the 
avenue, and turning into a cross street. A ten minutes’ 
drive brought them to old St. Matthew’s. He helped 
her from the carriage and led her into the church, at 
whose lighted altar stood the priest in his vestments, 
attended by one or two sacristans. 

In the front pew nearest the altar were three women 
at their devotions. 

As these were not the hours of public worship, there 
were no other persons in the church. Gloria wondered 
to see these present, but was. too much troubled with 
other thoughts to speak of the circumstance. 

David Lindsay, however, voluntarily enlightened 
her. 

“ I told the priest, in answer to his questions, that we 
had no witnesses to bring with us. He then saM that 
he would have to provide them. I suppose he has done 
so, and these are they,” he whispered, as he led his 
trembling companion up the aisle to the chancel. 


Bride arid Groom. 


243 


Two hassocks had been placed on the floor before the 
altar railings. Upon these they knelt. 

The priest opened his book and began the ceremony 
forthwith. 

The women in the front pew left their seats and drew 
near enough to hear the low responses of the bride- 
groom and the bride. 

The ceremony must have been relieved from all 
unnecessary forms, for it was very short, and very soon 
over. 

I pronounce you man and wife. Those whom God 
hath joined together, let no man put asunder.” 

The concluding words of the sacred marriage-rites, 
uttered in the sweet and solemn tones of the officiating 
priest, fell upon the ears of the unhappy girl like the 
knell of doom. 

The benediction was then pronounced, and the young 
pair arose from their knees. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

BRIDE AND GROOM. 

Wedded fast were we. 

E. B. Browning, 


“ Salute your wife,” said the priest. 

The young bridegroom turned to his bride — his face 
all glorious with the noblest love that ever inspired the 
soul of a world-renowned poet or warrior — and took her 


244 


Gloria, 


hand and drew her to his heart and bowed his head to 
offer her the customary kiss that was to seal the cere- 
mony just performed between them. 

She did not yield him her lips — she did not even leave 
him her hand, but shuddered and coldly withdrew her- 
self. 

David Lindsay turned deadly pale. 

The priest and the witnesses looked surprised. 
Such an exhibition of unkindness, not to say rudeness, 
they had never seen in all their experience of wed- 
dings. 

“ Come into the vestry, if you please,” then said the 
priest. 

David Lindsay, struck to the heart by his bride’s 
repulsion, recovered himself by an effort, drew her arm 
within his own and followed the clergyman. 

The two sacristans and the three witnesses brought 
up the rear. 

The parish register lay open on the table. 

The newly married pair were now required to sign 
their names. 

David Lindsay steadied himself and wrote his in 
clear characters. 

Gloria’s hand shook so in her attempt to write that 
the scratches and blotches she made might have meant 
anything or nothing. 

The witnesses affixed their signatures, and the deed 
was done. 

Then David Lindsay courteously thanked the priest 
and shook hands with him, leaving in his palm a very 
liberal fee. 

Finally, he drew the arm -of his bride under his own 
to lead her forth. 


Bride a^id Groom. 


245 


She was cold as ice and shaking as with an ague. 

As he led her down the aisle, on their way out of the 
church, some whispered words among the three women 
who had witnessed their marriage, and who now followed 
close behind them, fell on his ears. 

“ A runaway match, as sure as you are bom, and the 
girl repents already. She looks like death, she does,” 
said one woman. 

She’s scared nearly out of her wits for fear her 
father or somebody will be after her,” said another. 

“I declare I don’t know how any conscientious 
minister of the gospel ever can find it in his mind to 
marry a mnaway couple — and such children as these 
are, too. I must say I am astonished at Mr. O’Halloran !” 
added the third woman. 

“ Well, for my part,” recommenced the first, “ if one 
of my daughters should be so lost to all sense of pro- 
priety as to go off with any young man, I should be 
exceedingly thankful to the first minister, or even 
magistrate, who should tie them lawfully together.” 

“ To be sure, there is something in thaty which I never 
thought of before,” answered the caviler. 

David Lindsay drew his trembling companion on 
faster, in order to escape hearing any more of these 
unpleasant comments. 

He took her out and put her in the carriage, stepped 
in, and seated himself by her side and ordered the 
hack to drive back to the hotel. 

Gloria, dear Gloria, my own dearest lady,” he 
began, as he took one of her frozen hands. 

“ Don’t speak to me ! Don’t touch me !” she 
exclaimed, snatching her hand from his gentle hold. 


246 


Gloria. 


pulling her veil over her face, and tucking her head 
down in a corner of the cushions. 

“ Ah ! what have I done to offend you, lady ?” he 
pleaded. 

“ Be silent, I say ! And keep your hands to your- 
self, unless you wish to kill me ! But you may do that 
one thing ! You may kill me, if you like ! I wish you 
would !” 

Great Heaven ! Gloria, what is the matter with you ?” 

I am crazy ! crazy ! I told you I was crazy ! And 
if you do not leave me alone I shall go raving mad !” 
she wildly exclaimed, and then pushed her head down 
in the cushions again, as if she would shut out all sight 
of earth and heaven. 

David Lindsay sank back in his seat and turned 
deadly pale as he asked himself the question : 

What had he done to offend and alienate her ? To fill 
her mind with such abhorrence of himself ? He had 
obeyed her in everything. He had consecrated his life 
to her happiness. True, she was a rich heiress, and he 
was but a poor boy ; yet, if their cases had been 
reversed, and he had been the wealthy man and she 
the poor girl, he felt that he would equally have con- 
secrated his life to her. He loved her with his whole 
being, and since she had condescended to him, he had 
hoped finally to become more worthy of her, and to win 
her love ; for deep down in his soul he felt the prophecy 
that he should become worthy of her — 

“ Worthy as a king.’' 

But ever since, at the priest’s command, he had 
offered her the bridegroom’s kiss, she had shrunk from 
him in loathing. 


Bride and Groom» 


247 


Was it possible after all, that the mind of his beloved 
was unbalanced ? That her reason was deranged, and 
had been so at the time she had made her strange mar- 
riage proposal to him ? Had he himself been culpably 
hasty, even criminally reckless in his acceptance of her 
offered hand ? Had he unconsciously taken advantage 
of a poor child’s lunacy to make her his wife ? 

Indeed, the present aspect of affairs looked as if this 
must be the case. And if so, what earthly amends 
could he make her? How atone for the deep wrong 
he had done her ? 

These were terrible questions, that he, could in no 
way answer. 

While they still tortured his soul, the carriage drew 
up before the hotel, and the coachman left his seat on 
the box and came down and opened the door. 

Gloria’s face was still tucked down out of sight in the 
corner of the carriage. 

Come, lady, we have arrived,” the young bridegroon? 
whispered, in a gentle and deprecating tone. 

She pulled her veil down closer over her face, doub- 
ling it so that not a feature could be seen, and then 
allowed him to take her hand and assist her from the 
carriage. 

David Lindsay, in his distress, forgot to pay the 
hackman and discharge the hack. But that functionary 
jogged the memory of his employer and received his 
own dues. 

Then young Lindsay led his companion into the house 
and up to the ladies’ parlor, when she left his arm and 
hurried away by herself to a corner, where she sat 
down in a large chair and hid her head in its back 
cushions. 


248 


Gloria. 


Meanwhile David Lindsay went down stairs and 
registered their names and engaged rooms. 

When this was done he came back to the parlor, 
accompanied by a waiter with a couple of keys in his 
hand. 

Leaving this man at the door, laden with the two 
traveling-bags which had been pointed out, David 
Lindsay approached Gloria and whispered : 

“ A waiter is here to take up your bag and show you 
to your room. Will you go now, and will you have 
some tea, or whatever you prefer, sent up to you ?” 

She did not answer by one word, but shuddering arose, 
peeped through a fold of her veil, and seeing the waiter 
at the door, walked towards him. 

The man nodded, and led the way to a small suite 
of rooms on the same floor, consisting of a little parlor, 
chamber and bath-room. 

He opened these and put down the bags, and then 
struck a match and set fire to the kindlings already piled 
in the grates ready for ignition. 

Having performed these duties he turned to the lady 
and inquired : 

“ Any more orders, madam ?” 

“ Madam J” echoed the girl, with bitter scorn, though 
in so low a tone that the word was nearly inaudible. 
“No, I want nothing ; but, yes ; you may bring me a 
cup of tea. My throat is as parched as a desert.” 

The waiter nodded and went out. 

“ Now, what have I done !” exclaimed Gloria, as she 
tore off her gloves, her hat, and her sack, and threw 
them angrily on the bed. “ Now, what have I done ! 
Oh, Marcel ! I will never, never^ no, never forgive you 
for driving me to this pass ! Oh ! how I hate you ! 


Bride and Groom, 


249 


How I hate you for this, Marcel ! And I hate David 
Lindsay ! And I hate myself worse than all ! My 
odious self ! I hate everybody ! And I wish everybody 
was dead ! I do !’* she cried, flinging herself down 
on the floor, and rolling and crying like a passionate 
child. 

It is of no use to repeat all her ravings. 

David Lindsay was more than half right in his sur- 
mises, and Gloria was really more than half insane. 

She was still rolling and crying on the carpet, when 
the shuffling steps of the waiter approaching the door, 
caused her to start up in time to answer his knock. 

She placed herself behind the door, opened it, put out 
her hand and took in the little tea-tray, without showing 
her own tear-stained face. 

She drank the tea with eager thirst, and then sat 
down the empty cup and threw herself on the sofa. 

“ The cup that cheers,” and so forth, seemed to do 
her good, and perhaps her fit of hysterical weeping 
had temporarily exhausted itself, for she wept and raved 
no more, but lay, with her hands clasped over her face, 
in perfect stillness. 

An hour later there was a knock at her door. She 
started up and opened it, and David Lindsay entered 
the room. 

She recoiled to the farthest corner, and sat down and 
hid her head over the back of the chair. 

“ Do not shrink from me. Indeed I will not intrude 
my presence on you more than is absolutely necessary,” 
he began, in low and deprecating tones. 

But she shuddered, and shrank into herself, more 
fearfully than ever. 

He sat down at some little distance from her, sighed 


250 


Gloria. 


heavily, because he could not help doing so, drew out a 
handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead, 
which was beaded with a cold moisture, and paler now 
than it had ever been in his life before. 

I only wished to discover, if indeed I can do so, 
through you, whether you really knew what you were 
about when you came to me on the beach, when you 
accompanied me to the city here, and when you gave 
me your hand in the churcU ?” 

These words acted upon the motionless form with 
more power than a galvanic battery on a corpse. 

She sprang from her seat to the middle of the floor, 
and confronting him with a wild and agonized face, she 
exclaimed : 

“No, I did not know what I was doing ! I was mad 
— mad — ^mad ! and you ought to have known that I wa^ 
mad to have done such an unheard-of thing. Oh, David 
Lindsay, if you ever loved me, have pity on me now and 
leave me ! If you have a spark of mercy in your soul, 
grant my prayer, and leave me. If you have the least 
instinct of honor, do not insist on keeping the position 
that my act has given you. If you are a man and not a 
monster, and not a maniac, leave me and never let me 
see your face again.” 

He gazed on her in anguish and amazement. Then 
he arose from his chair, crossed over to the fireplace, 
and stood upon the corner of the hearth, with his elbow 
leaning on the mantelshelf, and his hand supporting his 
forehead. His eyes were fixed upon the floor, his face 
was white as death, and looked older by a dozen years 
than it should be. Yet he was very firm and patient. 
Boy as he was — but a few months past his twenty-first 
birthday — ^he could never descend to the weakness of 


Bride and Groom, 


251 


pleading bis suit, and pla5dng upon the sympathies of 
his beloved, as older and wiser men have done, and still 
do. No. If her love could not approve him, her pity 
should not accept him. He adored her with his whole 
soul. He had married her, yet he would not persecute 
her with an unwelcome suit. But neither must he leave 
her now, in her childishness and helplessness. He 
must see her in some place of safety, and under some 
proper protection. 

Such were the thoughts that passed rapidly through 
his mind, as he stood on the comer of the hearth, with 
his elbows resting on the mantelpiece, his head leaning 
on his hand, and his eyes fixed on the floor. 

“ David Lindsay, will you act the part of an honorable 
man, and leave me at once and forever, or will you stay 
here and drive me furious ?” she demanded again, in a 
voice of anguish. 

“ Patience for one moment, lady. I will leave you— 
as far as the next room — and never cross this threshold 
again. This chamber shall be your sanctuary. I will 
occupy the parlor. But I cannot leave you alone and 
unprotected in a strange city, dear. I must be on hand 
to take care of you, if needful. You are frightened 
now, Gloria. There is no need to be. I will not intrude. 
But we must have time to think what we shall next 
do.” 

He spoke very gently. 

And now she was weeping aloud. 

He left the room at once. 

“ Oh ! what a selfish and cruel wretch I am ! What 
a change has come over me ! I have turned into a 
demon ! I must be a demon to hate those who love 
me ! To hate them for loving me ! Oh, I wish I were 


252 


Gloria. 


dead ! I wish I had never lived !” she sobbed, throw- 
ing herself down upon the sofa in an agony of self- 
reproach and self-loathing. 

David Lindsay walked up and down in the adjoining 
room, his steps noiseless on the soft carpet. He was 
sorely perplexed in mind and distressed at heart, only 
certain of two obligations resting upon him — not to 
intrude on her privacy, yet not to desert her in her 
weakness and distraction. She was but a child, he felt, 
a child who had grown up under very peculiar circum- 
stances, so that she must not be judged as ordinary 
children or young girls. And what a heavenly child 
she had been ! How full of love, how free from selfish- 
ness ! Now she seemed indeed to have been driven 
into a state akin to insanity. Had he^ her old playmate, 
who loved her better than his own life, had any hand in 
this } He could not think so. He, with all his honesty 
of inquiry, could not see any other way than that they 
had taken to save her from an odious marriage, which 
her religious faith would have condemned even if her 
own heart had not revolted against it — a marriage into 
which she could not have been compelled, of course, 
but into which she might have been, through her pity, 
persuaded. Now she was safe, at least from that dan- 
ger. 

Meanwhile what was now his duty to her ? 

Not to intrude on her, and not to abandon her, cer- 
tainly. 

But afterwards ? 

He now remembered all that she had told him, while 
they sat together on the steamboat deck, concerning her 
father’s will, and how, on her attaining the age of eigh- 
teen, or on her marriage, she was to enter upon the 


Bride and Groom. 


253 


possession of her estate, and the authority of her guard- 
ian was to cease ; that this will had been made in Wash- 
ington city, and recorded in the office of the Register of 
Wills. 

He determined to go thither and examine the docu- 
ment for himself. 

He rapped gently at Gloria’s door. 

“ What do you want ?” she inquired, in smothered 
tones. 

“ I am going out for an hour. Shall I send any one 
to you ?” 

“ No, thanks ; I want nothing.” 

He turned away and went down stairs and out of the 
house, and bent his steps to the City Hall. 

On inquiring of the proper officers he obtained a view 
of the folio containing the record of the testament he 
sought. Having read it over, he thought he saw his 
way clearly enough towards placing his young bride in 
her own house, surrounded by her own servants, and 
safe from any annoyance from her late guardian. But 
he concluded that it would be better to take a lawyer’s 
opinion. 

He had noticed, as he came along that morning, 
almost every front basement on the north side of 
Louisiana Avenue, opposite the City Hall, to be the 
office of some attorney-at-law. 

He therefore knew where to go to look for one. 

He left the building and crossed the street, but went 
into at least a dozen places without finding any one dis- 
engaged. At length, however, he paused before the 
last and plainest on the block, which bore the sign : 

Patrick McLoughlin, Attorney and Counsellor at 
Law.” 


254 


Gloria, 


He entered a shabby little room, where a very young 
and briefless lawyer sat at a dusty desk, and seemed to 
have no heavier labor on hand than the perusal of the 
morning paper. 

To this young fellow David Lindsay introduced him- 
self, and stated his case, omitting only two circumstances 
— that the marriage proposal had come from the lady 
herself, and that immediately after the ceremony she 
had repulsed him. The knowledge of these unusual 
facts were, however, not at all essential to the right 
understanding of the situation. 

The young Irishman, with all the ardor and frankness 
of his race, heartily congratulated his client on having 
so successfully run away with an heiress ; for that was 
the light in which he viewed the affair. He made no 
pretense of being busy, but announced himself ready to 
attend Mr. Lindsay at once. They crossed over 
together to the City Hall, and went to the Registrar’s 
office, where McLoughlin read the recorded will, while 
David Lindsay stood by. Then he closed the folio with 
a rap, clapped his client on the shoulder, and exclaimed : 

“ That’s all right ! Take the lady home to the finest 
house she possesses, my dear fellow, and tell the old 
guardian, if he comes bothering around, to go to the 
divil ; his consent was not necessary !” 

Not very elegant language to couch a lawyer’s opinion 
in ; but McLoughlin has improved since then, and now 
you would hardly find a more dignified man at the 
Washington bar than he is. 

The young lawyer thought he had found a “big 
bonanza ” in this fortunate young fellow, who had mar- 
ried an heiress, and so he charged him fifty dollars for 


Bride and Groom. 


255 


his advice.. (He would charge five hundred for the 
same service noWy bless you.) 

David Lindsay paid the fee without demur ; but he 
was appalled, it reduced his funds so alarmingly low. 
He had left home with only two hundred dollars — the 
accumulated savings of ten or twelve years. Traveling 
expenses, and clergymen’s and lawyer’s fees had 
reduced it to less than a hundred already, and this cir- 
cumstance warned him that he must lose no time in 
stopping expenses at the hotel, but must take Gloria to 
her home, while yet he had the means of doing so — for 
he was resolved that he would not draw upon her 
resources. 

He took leave of young McLoughlin and walked 
rapidly towards their hotel. 

He went up stairs to their private parlor and rapped 
at her door. 

Well ?” she said, in a subdued voice. 

“ Will you come out, dear, and let me speak to you ?” 

“ Yes,” she murmured, in a low tone ; and presently 
she appeared, closed the door behind her, and sat down 
on the nearest chair. She did not wait for him to speak, 
but, with a dry sob, commenced : 

David Lindsay, I am a lost spirit — an evil spirit. I 
cannot help that. I have treated you unpardonably. I 
cannot help that, either — I — ” 

“ Do not reproach yourself, dear. There is no thought 
in my heart that reproaches you,” he answered gently, 
as he stood with his back to the window and with his 
eyes cast down, so that she should not see the trouble 
that he could not entirely banish from his face. 

“ Ah, but I do and must. I feel how wickedly, yes, 
how basely I have acted towards you, David Lindsay, 


256 


Gloria. 


and am still acting, and must still act ; but I cannot help 
it ! I cannot help anything. We must part, David 
Lindsay.” 

“ I know it, dear,” he answered, in as steady tones as he 
could command, for he knew her sympathetic nature, 
and knew how much she would suffer from compassion, 
if she should see him suffer. “ I know we must part. 
It would be scarcely natural, scarcely possible, that you 
should love me, to live with me. The ceremony of this 
morning must go for nothing, so far as I am concerned, 
but just this — to be a shield and defence about you, to 
protect you from your guardian’s suit and from your 
own heart’s weakness — that is all. When you are older 
and stronger, and able to do without it, the empty 
ceremony of this morning can be set aside, annulled — 
for, Gloria, the marriage rites, so sacred between souls 
that are already one, was but an idle and an empty 
ceremony between you and me, and is good for nothing 
but a temporary defence to your helplessness. It has 
given me a husband’s right to protect you before the 
world, Gloria, but I shall use it only as a brother. As a 
brother, I will escort you to your own home, Gloria, and 
establish you there.” 

“ And then ?” she inquired, in a voice scarcely above 
her breath. 

“ Then, dear, I will bid you good-bye, when I see you 
safe.” 



CHAPTER XIX. 

LOVE WITHOUT SELF-LOVE. 

Stand up ! Look below ! 

It is my life at thy feet I throw, 

To step with into light and joy ! 

Not a power of life but I’ll employ — 

Browning. 

Gryphynshold ! Take me to Gryphynshold ! That 
is the most remote of all the manors left me by my 
father. Take me there, for I wish to go as far as possi- 
ble from all the people I ever knew before !” said 
Gloria, in reply to David Lindsay’s suggestion that he 
should convey her to some one of her houses as to a 
place of refuge. 

They were still sitting together, where we left them, 
in the private parlor of the hotel, on the afternoon of 
the day of their marriage. 

They were now conversing in a quiet and friendly 
manner on the subject of their approaching departure, 
for they had resolved to leave Washington the same 
evening. 

Gloria was much more composed now than she had 
ever been since the hour of her marriage ; for David 
Lindsay had assured her that he should never presume 


258 


Gloria. 


on the position she had given him, even to enter her 
presence uninvited. 

She had, from their childhood up, always loved and 
trusted him, and now that he had given her this 
promise, she implicitly believed him, and dismissed all 
her disquieting doubts. 

David Lindsay, meanwhile, magnanimously repressed 
all exhibition of the bitter mortification and sorrow he 
experienced. He knew his little playmate too well to 
blame her. He knew her better than any one else in 
the world — ^better than she knew herself. The poor 
little hunted and helpless fawn had flown \.o him iox 
refuge, and he would succor her in the way she pleased, 
not in the way he had wished. 

She had chosen her place of refuge, and he would 
take her there. 

“ Gryphynshold,” he slowly repeated, when she had 
named the selected point of destination. “ What a 
savage and gloomy name, dear ! Where is that ?” 

“ The name is not more gloomy and savage than the 
place, I fear. It is situated in the extreme southwestern 
part of Virginia, on or near the point of juncture with 
North Carolina and Tennessee. It is said to be the 
most ancient building in all that region of country ; it 
was erected in a gorge of the Iron Mountains by an 
eccentric and misanthropical Welshman named Dyvyd- 
ap-Gryphyn, said by some annalists to have been an 
outlaw in his own country and a refugee in this. How- 
ever that might have been, or whether he had any legal 
right to the land or not, there, in the most terrific 
yawning abyss of the mountain range, he built a rude 
stronghold of heavy rock and ponderous timber, and 
called it Gryphynshold ; and there he lived, supporting 


Love Without Self-Love, 


259 


himself by hunting and fishing, like any other savage 
denizen of the wilderness, and there at length he 
married an Indian girl of the Cherokee tribe. From 
that marriage sprang the race of Gryphyns — a proud, 
surly, ferocious race of men, the bane of each other, and 
the terror of their neighborhood.” 

“ It is to be devoutly hoped that they were not a very 
numerous tribe,” said David Lindsay. 

“No. I have heard Aunt Agrippina say that there 
was never more than one child born of any marriage, 
and that was always a son. Strange, wasn’t it, from 
generation to generation, only one son to succeed his 
father ?” 

“ Very strange ; yet it precluded all possibility of 
law-suits among the heirs. But how came this ill- 
omened property into your father's hands, my dear little 
lady,” inquired David Lindsay, in a playful tone, 
assumed to hide the heartache that was torturing him. 

“ Oh, it was a dreadful, dreadful story. I do not 
know the details of it. But Mr. Dyvyd Gryphyn, the 
last descendant of the Welsh outlaw who founded the 
family, seems to have been a demon in human form, 
more haughty, surly, cruel and furious than any of his 
evil predecessors, yet withal as demonically beautiful 
and fascinating as Lucifer, Son of the Morning. After 
the death of his father, who was killed in a tavern broil, 
and of his mother, who dropped dead of heart disease 
on hearing the news — for all these handsome and 
ferocious demons seemed to have been fondly loved 
by their unfortunate wives — Dyvyd Gryphyn left 
Gryphynshold on a tour of Europe. After an absence 
of three years he returned home, bringing with him a 
young woman, said to have been fairer than the fairest 


26 o 


Gloria. 


lily, more blooming than the rosiest rose. He loved 
her with the surly, jealous, cruel love of his nature 
and the nature of his fathers, which seems to be not so 
much love as a devouring and consuming fire, the curse 
and ruin of all upon whom it chanced to fall. And she 
loved him with that fatality of devotion which -was the 
doom of all the women ever chosen by the ill men of 
the race. She was content to bury herself with him in 
that savage solitude, remote from all human kind ; yet 
he did not seclude himself, but rode forth to distant 
towns and villages, and remained away for days and 
weeks together. Sometimes he would bring a party of 
men home with him, and they would hunt or fish all 
day, and carouse all night. But he never let any of 
them see his hidden beauty, who lived as isolated in 
her dreary prison as any enchanted princess in a fairy 
castle, until one night, in the midst of a midnight orgie, 
when his reckless companions were all mad with drink, 
and he himself was maddest of all, he sent and sum- 
moned her to the feast. The poor thing was not a 
Queen Vashti, so she obeyed the drunken mandate, and 
came down. I do not know what happened there — 
what she was forced to see and hear and bear — but that 
she was grieved, shocked and terrified beyond all 
endurance is certain, for as soon as she could break 
away and escape from the fiendish crew, she fled to the 
top of the house and hid herself, in a state of delirious 
terror.” 

Gloria paused and shuddered. 

“ What became of the poor young woman ?” inquired 
David Lindsay. 

“ I do not know. No one knows what finally became 
of her. The party of revellers broke up the next morn- 


Love Without Self-Love. 


261 


ing and Dyvyd Gryphyn rode with them to the next 
town and remained absent for a day, during which the 
poor little soul at home grew quieter.” • 

Again Gloria paused, and David Lindsay inquired : 

“And was there a reconciliation between this ill- 
sorted pair ?” 

“ I do not know. I never even heard whether he saw 
her again on the morning after the orgie, or whether 
he took leave of her before setting out on his journey 
with the revellers. She grew very quiet in his 
absence.” 

Once more Gloria sank into silence. Once more the 
young man prompted h^ to continue, saying : 

“ Well, and when this demon of Gryphynshold came 
back ?” 

“ Oh, David Lindsay, what next happened is so horri- 
ble — so horrible that I^shrink from speaking of it,” she 
said, with a shudder. 

“ Then do not, lady dear,” he answered, gently. 

“ Oh, but I must ! It is on my mind and it must 
out ! I have heard that he came back in the middle of 
a January night — a bitter, cold, freezing night. His 
face, they say, was as black as a thunder cloud, and his 
eyes flashed like lightning. Without deigning a word 
to one of the servants, who came to attend him, he 
strode at once to the chamber of his poor young victim 
and ordered her to get up and dress herself, for she 
should leave his house that night !” 

. “ What an unheard-of monster !” exclaimed David 
Lindsay. 

“ Oh, what a wretched maniac ! for no man in his 
senses would have acted with such causeless cruelty. 
In vain the poor creature pleaded to know what she 


262 


Gloria. 


had done to offend him. He only cursed her and 
threatened to throw her from the window unless she 
dressed and departed at once. In vain she wept and 
begged to stay till morning. He told her, with many 
fierce curses, that by this delay she only trifled with his 
temper and her own life. Oh ! oh, David Lindsay, he 
thrust that delicate creature forth in the freezing air of 
that bitter January night to perish on the mountains !” 
exclaimed Gloria, who had forgotten all her own trou- 
bles in recalling this horrible story. 

And did she so perish ?” mournfully inquired the 
young man. 

‘‘ I do not know. Some weeks from that night a 
party of hunters found the dead body of a woman on 
the mountain ; but the birds of prey had found it first 
and it was unrecognizable ! Oh, it is all too, too hide- 
ous I It was supposed to be the body of Dyvyd 
Gryphyn’s victim, and, as she was never heard of after- 
wards, it probably was hers.” 

“ And what became of the madman ? You were right 
in calling him a maniac, Gloria ; for such he certainly 
must have been. You said that he was the last owner 
of Gryphnshold, therefore he must be dead. How did he 
die r 

“ Ah, like nearly all his fierce race ! A violent death ! 
On the very day after he had thrust his poor little 
white slave out into the winter night, he himself fell in 
a duel with one of the reckless companions of his 
demoniac orgies of that terrible night when he com- 
manded the hidden beauty to come into their abhorrent 
presence.” 

“ Killed in a duel at last,” muttered David Lindsay 
to himself. 


Love Without Self-Love. 


263 


“ Yes, and with him perished the last of the evil race 
of the Gryphyns of Gryphynshold.” 

“ How came your father to purchase such an ill- 
omened piece of property ?” 

“ It was advertised to be sold for taxes. Then an 
heir turned up in a Welsh baronet, who spelled his 
name in the more modern and civilized manner of 
G-r-i-f-f-i-n, but who was of the same original Welsh 
stock, the next of kin, and the heir-at-law, though a 
very, very, very distant cousin. This gentleman did 
not want this mountain property, and so, as soon as his 
claim to it was established, he threw the estate into the 
market, and my father bought it.” 

What could have induced Count de la Vera to buy 
such a place ?” 

“ He was looking around for opportunities to invest 
his money in Virginia lands, being determined to 
become a citizen of the United States. He thought the 
Iron Mountain must be rich in the ore that gave it its 
name, and rich in other ores as well ; and that this 
would be a source of great wealth to his wife and chil- 
dren in the future, if not immediately to himself ; for 
remember that my mother was living at the time of the 
purchase.” 

“After what you have told me, dear, I question 
whether that would be a desirable residence for any 
one, least of all for you,” said David Lindsay, gravely. 

“ Oh, yes it would. I particularly wish to go there. 
Ah, I know not why, but the very savageness of the 
place attracts me !” exclaimed Gloria. 

“ Who is in charge of the house ? Shall we find it 
habitable ? Will there be accommodations for you ?” 

“ Oh, yes, I suppose so,” said Gloria, answering the 


264 


Gloria, 


last question first ; “ the place should be kept up ; my 
father purchased it just as it was, with slaves, stock, 
carriage and horses, implements, furniture, and every- 
thing. He even retained the hired white overseer and 
the housekeeper who had been in the service of the last 
owner. I know that Uncle Marcel used to receive their 
accounts and pay their wages twice every year.” 

“ So you have decided to go to Gryphynshold ?” 

“ I have determined to go there,” said Gloria, firmly. 

‘‘ Then I must get a map and trace out our course as 
well as I can, and afterwards inquire about stages.” 

“ I can tell you that ; for once during our summer 
holiday trips, Marcel and I, being in this city, planned 
to go and take a look at my mountain stronghold, as he 
called it. So we left Washington by the six p. m. stage- 
coach for Winchester ; thence to Staunton ; and thence 
to the Greenbriar White Sulphur Springs ; but there 
we found the place so attractive that we went no farther. 
So I know that we must commence our journey by the 
stage that leaves here at six o’clock in the evening. 
What time is it now ? Let me see,” she said, as she con- 
sulted her diamond -studded little gold watch. “ It is 
half-p^st one. Now, please ring and order a carriage. 
I must go out and buy a trunk, a work-box, a writing- 
desk, a dressing-case, clothes, needles and thread, 
stationary, combs and brushes, and all such necessaries 
of a girl’s life, before going into that remote mountain 
wilderness. And at the same time we can stop at the 
stage office and take our places.” 

The young man answered by ringing the bell, and 
when the waiter appeared he gave the requisite order. 

Gloria went in her chamber to put on her sack and 
hat. 


Love Without Self-Love, 


265 


The carriage was soon announced, and in live minutes 
afterwards the young pair were rolling along the avenue, 
Gloria looking out from the window to watch for the 
signs of the shops she wished to visit. 

Presently she stopped the carriage before the door of 
the only general dealer and outfitter in ladies’ ready- 
made garments that the city then afforded. 

David Lindsay left her there and went to book their 
places in the Winchester stage-coach. 

It took Gloria three full hours to drive from place to 
place and collect all she wanted. She found them all 
without leaving the avenue, however. She had the 
trunk put on behind the carriage and the goods all piled 
within it, to save time by taking them to the hotel her- 
self. Finally she reached her rooms at about five o’clock 
and spent half an hour in diligent packing. 

David Lindsay then came to take her down to dinner, 
which they had scarcely finished before the stage-coach 
called to claim them. 

In those slow days stage-coaches did not start exactly 
on time, as railway trains are supposed to do now. I 
have known a stage-coach to wait twenty minutes while 
John C. Calhoun and Henry Clay leisurely finished their 
breakfast before taking their seats to leave Washington 
at the end of a session of Congress. 

Our young pair did not keep the coach waiting. They 
soon had their luggage brought down and bestowed in 
the boot, and soon after found themselves comfortably 
seated, the only passengers except two returning 
country dealers who had been East to purchase goods 
for the spring trade. This class indeed formed the bulk 
of travelers at this season of the year. 


266 


Gloria. 


It was dark when the coach started on its long and 
wearisome journey. 

There was neither moon nor stars out, for the sky 
was quite overclouded, so that there was no temptation 
for the passengers to gaze abroad as the stage-coach 
rattled over the newly macadamized avenue on through 
Washington, Georgetown, Tennalleytown to Rockville, 
where it changed horses, and where one of the travelers 
left them and another one took his place. 

When the coach started again, Gloria curled herself 
up in her corner and tried to go to sleep, for she was in 
no way interested in the conversation concerning the 
dullness of the trade and the unpunctuality of debtors 
which the country merchants had forced upon her com- 
panion. 

Rocked, or fatigued, by the rolling of the cumber- 
some old coach, Gloria was soon fast asleep, and she 
slept through the whole night, undisturbed except by 
the stoppage at the post-houses to change horses. 

At sunrise they reached Leesburg, where they stopped 
to breakfast and to change coaches, taking the Win- 
chester coach. 

They rode all day through the most beautiful passes 
of the lesser Blue Ridge and reached Winchester in the 
Valley in time for an early tea. 

Here again they were to change coaches and take the 
Staunton stage. 

David Lindsay would have prevailed on Gloria to 
stop and rest till morning, but she was determined to 
pursue her journey. 

They bad but an hour here before the starting of the 
Staunton coach, and Gloria made the most of her time 


Love Without Self-Love. 


267 


to refresh herself by a wash and prepare comfortably 
for her second night’s ride. 

After an excellent tea, for which their wintry day’s 
journey had given them a keen appetite, the young 
travelers took their seats in the Staunton coach and 
recommenced their journey. 

And this second night, poor, disappointed David 
Lindsay slept as soundly in his seat as did the willful 
beauty, Gloria, in hers. 

Not even the stoppage of the coach to change horses, 
amid the flashing lights of the roadside post-houses, or 
the getting off of old passengers and climbing in of new 
ones succeeded in arousing them, for if disturbed they 
would draw a long breath, slightly change position, and 
drop asleep again. 

They never opened their eyes until the stage-coach 
stopped at Woodstock, when the tumultuous getting 
out of their fellow-passengers at once fully awakened 
them. 

Then they saw that the sun was at least an hour high, 
and that the horses were being taken from the coach 
before a spacious hotel in the principal street of a 
country town. 

“ What place is this ?” drowsily inquired David Lind- 
say. 

“Woodstock, sir, where we change horses and get 
breakfavSt,” answered the guard. 

David handed his sleepy companion from the inside 
of the heavy old vehicle, and led her into a pleasant 
parlor, where their fellow-travelers were already 
gathered around a large, open fireplace, in which a 
glorious hickory wood fire was blazing. The party 
there made room for the young lady. 


268 


Gloria, 


But she did not stay with them long. A neat colored 
girl came up to her and respectfully whispered the 
question as to whether she would not like to go to her 
room before breakfast. 

Decidedly Gloria would like to do that very thing. 
So she arose and followed the girl, who lifted and 
carried the young lady’s traveling-bag to a spacious 
chamber over the parlor, with white dimity window- 
curtains and bed-spread, and a fine fire blazing up the 
open chimney-place. 

The girl supplied the young traveler with warm and 
cold water, fresh towels, and every other requisite for 
the toilet — informing her, meantime, that she had half 
an hour before breakfast. 

Gloria was glad. She sent for her trunk to be brought 
np, and had a thoroughly refreshing toilet, with a full 
change of dress. 

Then, as fresh as if she had risen from a comfortable 
bed, instead of coming out of a lumbering stage-coach, 
she went down and joined her fellow-travelers at a 
delicious breakfast of coffee, hot rolls, buckwheat cakes, 
venison, quails, ham, and every dainty of the season. 

After the breakfast, half their fellow-passengers 
entered with them into the Staunton coach. (The other 
half had diverged in various directions.) 

Their way now laydown the great valley of Virginia, 
with the Blue Ridge mountains on the east and the 
Alleghanies on the west — a paradise of beauty in the 
summer, and a fine country even when covered with 
snow, as it was now, in midwinter. 

By nightfall they reached Staunton. 

Gloria was much fatigued, and again David Lindsay 
implored her to rest for one night. 


Love Witho2it Self-Love, 


269 


But Gloria, willful as ever, was bent upon going on 
until she should reach the end of her journey. That 
extreme bourn, the “ Hold ” in the Iron Mountains, on 
the confines of three States, possessed a weird attraction 
like the lodestone, and drew her on and on. 

“ It is like a place in a dream — a place in a nightmare 
— but it fascinates me all the same,” she answered to 
the expostulations of David Lindsay. 

After a substantial supper, finished with strong coffee, 
the travelers who were to go farther took seats in the 
changed coach, and began the third night’s journey 
towards Lexington. 

Again, as before, the two young people slept through- 
out the ride, only, being still more fatigued, they slept 
more soundly than ever, and only awakened when, at 
sunrise, the coach drew up at the hotel in the main 
street of the little town of Lexington, and their fellow- 
passengers began to climb over them in getting out. 

Here they stopped for an hour. A refreshing wash, 
a substantial breakfast, and a brisk walk up and down 
the village street, restored the strength and spirit of 
the wearied young pair, so that they re-entered the 
lumbering old coach without any remaining oppression 
from fatigue, and well prepared to enjoy the day’s ride 
through the varied scenery of hill and dale, woods, 
waters, fields, farms, towns and hamlets that diversified 
the valley that lay between the two great ranges of 
mountains. 

Towards evening the valley narrowed and the moun- 
tains rose until the road seemed to be approaching a 
gorge. 

While there was yet light enough, David Lindsay 


270 


Gloria. 


drew a pocket map from his breast and began to 
examine it. 

“ If our journey takes us through that yawning chasm, 
I think we had better stop for the night at the first tav- 
ern we come to," suggested the young man, thinking 
more of the safety of his companion than of his own. 

“ No ! where the coach can go, we can go, night or 
day,” persisted Gloria. 

It was dusk when they reached the gap they had 
seen so far before them. There was a great stone 
building on a river that broke through the mountains 
at this point. The water reflected the high precipices 
and the buildings with their gleaming lights. The 
place was a combination of tavern, post-house, mill and 
ferry. 

Here they stopped to change horses and get supper, 
after which the coach, with its passengers, freight and 
horses, was ferried across the river to the other side, 
and then it took the road beneath the shelter of the 
snow-clad mountains, and kept it, plodding along slowly 
for the rest of the night. 

But we must not dwell too long on this picturesque 
journey. 



CHAPTER XX. 

GRYPHYNSHOLD. 

But there no more shall human voice 
Be heard to rage — lament — rejoice — 

The last sad note that swelled the gale 
Was woman’s wildest funeral wail. 

Byron. 

From this point, however, they had left the lovely 
landscape of the valley and entered as by a natural gate 
into the wild mountain scenery, that, as they went on, 
grew wilder, more dreary and desolate. 

They were two more days and nights on the road, 
stopping at irregular intervals to change horses at way- 
side post-houses, located just where it was possible to 
put them, or to breakfast, dine and sup at roadside tav- 
erns or little village hotels, until at the close of the fifth 
day from starting on their wearisome journey, they 
reached a ferry on the banks of a narrow, deep and 
rapid river, on the opposite side of which arose a lofty 
range of dark, cedar-covered mountains. 

Here their stage journey ended. 

They left the coach, had their baggage taken, and 
entered the ferry-house. 

The coach, after changing horses, went on its way. 


272 


Gloria, 


Gloria and David Lindsay found themselves in* a 
homely parlor, with bare walls and bare floor, a few 
flag-bottomed chairs and a pine table. The only orna- 
ments were a defaced looking-glass between the win- 
dows and a framed picture of old-fashioned sampler- 
work representing a willow-tree over a tombstone, hung 
over the mantel -piece. 

It was, however, heated by a roaring fire of great 
cedar logs, for cedar was the most plentiful wood in 
that mountain region, and it was lighted by two tall 
tallow-dips in iron candlesticks. 

David Lindsay drew forward a chair and placed it 
before the fire for his weary companion, and then went 
out to find the landlord, ferryman, or some other 
responsible party. 

After an absence of a few moments he came back, and 
said : 

“ Now, dear, I have two plans to propose to you. 
Choose between them. Mr. Cummings, the landlord 
here, has no conveyance except a heavy wagon drawn 
by mules, • which he says is the safest sort for these 
mountain roads, and in which he is willing to send us 
on to Gryphynshold either to-night or to-morrow morn- 
ing. The accommodations here are very rude and 
plain, as you see. You may judge what the upper 
rooms are by this, which I suppose is the best. Now it 
is for you to decide whether to go on to-night or to stay 
here and rest till morning and take the daylight for 
your journey to Gryphynshold.” 

“ Oh, let us go on at once ! Where the mules can 
take the wagon, surely we can go,” promptly replied 
Gloria. 

David Lindsay went out and gave the order. His 


Gryphynsh old. 


273 


exit was followed by the entrance of a colored girl, who 
respectfully invited the young lady to go up into a bed- 
room where she could lay off her wraps and refresh 
herself while the supper and the wagon were getting 
ready. 

Gloria willingly followed her, and took the benefit of 
all her offered services. 

Then, feeling much better, she slipped a piece of 
money in the poor girl’s hand, and went down stairs, 
where an excellent supper awaited them. 

Whatever the mental troubles of the young pair 
might be, the long journey over the snow-clad and 
frozen roads, and through the pure, exhilarating air of 
mid-winter, had given them fine, healthy appetites, and 
they both did full justice to the coffee, corn-bread and 
venison steaks that were set before them. 

Immediately after supper they entered the heavy 
wagon, into which their luggage had already been 
placed, and settled themselves to continue their journey 
to Gryphynshold. 

“ Mind, Tubal,” called the landlord to his negro 
driver, “ you take the lower road ! It is the longest, 
but it is the safest.” 

“Yes, sar,” responded the darkey. 

“ And when you get to the Devil’s Backbreaker be 
sure to jump off and lead the mules all the way up, 
or there’ll be an accident. Do you mind ?” 

“Yes, sar.” 

“ And when you come to Sinking Creek, be certain to 
look out for the water-post, to see if it is low enough to 
ford.” 

“ Yes, sar.” 

“ And when you get up to Peril Ledge get off and 


Gloria, 


274 


lead the beasts again ; and mind you be very careful ! I 
don’t want another broken neck broughten back here 
for a crowner’s quest.” 

“ No, sar.” 

“ Now, then, start, and mind what I tell you.” 

“ Yes, sar,” said Tubal, and as he slowly set his mules 
in motion, he muttered to himself : “ ’Tain’t de dangers 
ob goifC dere to old Grippinwolf — omphe ! no ! I don’t 
mind goin’ dere, but as to stayin’ dere all night to res’ 
de mules — no, sar ! — not Tubal !” 

What are you talking about, old man ?” inquired 
David Lindsay. 

But by this time they had reached the edge of the 
river, and Tubal’s whole attention was engaged in 
driving his mules on to the great flat ferry-boat, 
upon which stood four men with very long poles 
to push it over. 

Nothing more was said until after they had reached 
the other side and Tubal had driven the wagon off the 
boat on to a road running between the front of the prec- 
ipice and the river. 

“ What is the matter with old Gryphynshold that you 
would not stay all night in the place ?” again questioned 
David Lindsay, whose interest in the ancient house had 
been deeply excited by the story of the last owner. 

“ What de matter long ob Grippinwolf, you ax ? 
Now, look here, young marster, I dunno who yer is, nor 
what yer arter cornin’ up here to Grippinwolf, whar no 
decent Christian hasn’t been wisitin’ in de memory ob 
man ! But you jes’ take a fool’s advice an’ turn right 
square roun’ an’ go right straight back whar yer come 
from. Don’t keep on to Grippinwolf,” said the old 
man, solemnly. 


Gryphynshold. 


2/5 


“ Why shouldn’t we go on ? What is the matter with 
Gryphynshold, I ask you again ?” inquired David. 

“Debbil’s de matter wid it, young marster, jes' de 
debbil ! Not as I’d mind dat so much, if it war on’y de 
debbil, ’cause we read so much about him in de cate- 
chism dat he feels like a ole acquaintance ob ourn — 
nateral like — on’y we don’t want to fall in his hands. No, 
I don’t mind him so much ; but dere’s heap wuss dan de 
debbil as ails ole Grippinwolf.” 

“ What is it, then ?” inquired David, interested, in spite 
of his better reason. 

The old negro paused, as if to give full effect to his 
words, and then solemnly replied : 

“ Dead people /” 

‘ Dead people !’ ” echoed David Lindsay, in amaze- 
ment. 

“ Ooomer groaned the old man. 

“ How can the dead trouble the place ?” inquired the 
young man. 

“ Ooome r groaned the negro. 

“What do they do } They lie quietly in their graves, 
do they not ?” 

“ Ooome ! Hush, honey ! I wish dey did !” 

“ What do they do, then ?” 

Again the negro paused to give full effect to his 
words, as he mysteriously replied : 

“ Dey walks /” 

“ Walks !” 

“Yes, honey, de dead people walks in Grippinwolf — 
walks so continual dat dey won’t let anybody else lib 
dere.” 

“ Why, Mrs. Brent, the housekeeper, lives there !” 


Gloria. 


276 


exclaimed Gloria, putting in her voice for the first 
time. 

“ What say, honey ?” inquired the negro. 

“ I say the housekeeper, Mrs. Brent, lives there." 

HerV exclaimed Tubal, in such a tone of 
scornful denial that Gloria hastened to add : 

“ She does live there, does she not ?" 

“ Ole mist’ess lib in Grippinwolf ? Ooome ! Yer bet- 
ter jes’ ax her to lib dere, dat’s all !" 

“ Then the housekeeper does not live in the house, if 
I understand you aright ?" said Gloria, in unpleasant 
surprise. 

“ Hi, what I tell you, honey ? Nobody can’t lib dere 
’mong de dead people !’’ 

“ What nonsense you talk, old man. Some one must 
live there to take care of the house." 

“ Well, den, dey don’t, young mist’ess, an’ I tell yer 
so good ! De ghosts has ’jected everybody out ob dat 
house, and dey has had it all to deirselves dis twenty 
years or more." 

“ Then my guardian has been completely deceived I 
He has been paying a salary to a housekeeper who has 
abandoned her duties. And if the house is deserted, as 
he says, what shall we do, David Lindsay ?’’ inquired 
Gloria, in a tone of indignant distress and perplexity. 

“ Turn right roun’ an’ go straight back whar yer 
come from ! You do dat while times is good. Dat’s 
de ’wice what I gibbed yer fust, an’ dat’s de ’wice what 
I gib yer last," said Tubal, answering for his passenger, 

“ Is there no one on the place to receive us, then 
inquired David Lindsay. 

“ Oh, dere’s de oberseer, in his own house, ’bout 
quarter ob a mile dis side ob Grippinwolf Hall ; but 


Gryphyiishold, 


277 


Lor’, de people ’bout here don’t call de place Grippin- 
wolf no more — dey calls it Ghost Hall.” 

“ Where does the housekeeper live ?” inquired David 
Lindsay. 

“ Oh, she — she libs at de gate lodge. She moved dere 
when she was dejected by de ghosts.” 

“ Now, Gloria, we have not ridden more than two 
miles from the ferry. What would you like to do ? 
Turn back, as the old man advises, and stop at the ferry 
for the up coach and take our places for the North, and 
for some other home of yours more convenient and 
attractive, or go on to this ?” earnestly inquired David 
Lindsay. 

“ Oh, go on to Gryphynshold, by all means. Since I 
have heard the supernatural tales told by this old man, 
which well supplement the horrible stories told me by 
Aunt Agrippina, I am more than ever determined to 
go on to Gryphynshold. The overseer can certainly 
give you a bed in his cottage for to-night, while I shall 
stay at the gate lodge with the housekeeper — ” 

“ And as for me,” put in the old negro, “ soon ’s ebber 
I gets to dat same gate-house, which won’t be ’fore 
midnight, I gwine to lop you all right down dere an’ 
turn right round and dribe my mules straight home 
ag’in. All de money in dis univarse wouldn’t hire 
ole Uncle Tubal to take up his lodgings ’long ob de 
dead people ! Leastways, not till I’se dead myself !” 

You can do as you please,” said David ; “but tell 
us what gave rise to these ridiculous stories ?” 

“ What rised ’em ? Why, de ghosts rised ’em ! De 
ghost ob dat ole Satan’s demon son, Dyvyd Grippin- 
wolf, who murdered de booful young 00m an as he 
stole away from her friends an’ fotch to his own 


278 


Glo7^ia, 


Debbil’s den up yonder. His unquiet ghost rages up 
and down all night, rushin’ t’rough de halls and up de 
stairs, a slammin’ and a bangin’ ob de doors like a 
ravin’ mad bull. And no bolts or bars ebber strong 
enough to keep him out. Dafs de one what tarrifies 
people clean out’n deir senses, young marster, I tell yer 
good.” 

“ Is old Dyvyd Gryphyn’s ghost the only hobgoblin 
that haunts the hold ?” inquired David Lindsay, with 
a smile. 

“ Lor’, no ! Why, dere’s crowds of ’em sometimes. 
All de wicked, wiolent, furious old Gryphns as ebber 
libbed dere — which none ob ’em ebber died in deir beds, 
yer know ! — all ob dem died wiolent deaths — holds high 
jubalee-la ! dere ebbery night ’long ob all de debbils 
out’n de pit ! Hush, honey ! Dat ole house up dere is 
de werry mouf ob de black pit ob Satan ! An’ ef any- 
body was to ’xamine, I reckon dey’d find de deep, dry 
well in de cellar was nuffin less dan a way down into 
dat same black pit ob Satan ; and all debbils do come 
up an’ down it to hold high jubilee-la ! along with all de 
wicked, furious ole ghosts ob de Gryphns !” 

“ Has any one ever seen any of these dreadful orgies ?” 
inquired David Lindsay, with an incredulous laugh. 

You may laugh, young master,” said the old negro, 
in an offended tone ; “ but ef yer persists in goin’ an, 
stayin’ at dat ole debbil’s den, you’ll laugh on t’other 
side ob your mouf, I tell yer good.” 

“ Has any one seen any of these horrible spectres ?’ 
reiterated David Lindsay. 

“ Hi ! What I tell yer ? Didn’t Mr. Oberseer Cum- 
mings and Mrs. Housekeeper Brent bofe see an’ hear 
dem ? An’ didn’t de ghost deject dem out’n de house ? 


GrypJiynshold, 


279 


An* I, my own self, wid my own eyes, a-comin’ from de 
mill one night, passed in sight ob dat ole ghostly house. 
De night was dark as pitch ! Dere was nyder moon nor 
stars, an’ I couldn’t hab seed nuffin only for my eyes 
gettin’ use to de dark, yer know. An’ I did look up to 
de ole ghost house, standin’ way up dere on de mountain, 
straight an’ black, against de dark sky, an’ I couldn’t see 
no windows fust, but all of a sudden I saw all de windows 
in de front ob de black looking house !” 

With this culmination of horror, old Tubal made an 
awful pause. 

But as no one made the expected exclamation of 
astonishment the old man inquired : 

“ Now, how does yer fink I saw all de windows in dat 
dark, deserted house on dat dark night ?” 

“ Heaven knows !” said David Lindsay. 

“ Want me to tell you ?” 

Yes.” 

“ By de light ob de ghosts' eyes !" 

“ What !” 

By de light ob de ghosts’ eyes, sure as I’m a libbin’ 
sinner ! Dere was a ghost at every window, an’ at some 
windows dere was two or free, bofe men an’ women 
ghosts. An’ every one ob deir eyes was a shining like 
an inward fire an’ lightin’ up all de windows !” 

Again the narrator made an awful pause. 

Gloria was evidently impressed by his story. Not so 
David Lindsay, who quietly asked : “ Had you taken 

anything to drink that evening, old man ?” 

“ Who ? Me ? Don’t ’suit me, young marster ; I’m a 
Son of Tempunce, an’ a brudder in de Bethelum 
Methody Meetin’,” said the old man, in dignified resent- 
ment. 


28 o 


Gloria. 


“ I beg your pardon, I really do,” replied David Lind- 
say, with frank courtesy. 

“ I did gib yer de bes’ Vice in my power, not to go 
nigh dat debbil’s den ! But course you’ll do as yer 
likes. No offence, young marster.” 

“ Why, you see this lady is fully determined to go on 
there,” David Lindsay explained. 

“ Yes, I am,” added Gloria. “ All that I hear of that 
old house only serves to confirm my resolution to go on 
and see it. We can find accommodations with the over- 
seer or the housekeeper for this one night, David Lind- 
say, and then to-morrow we will have the old strong- 
hold of ghosts, goblins and devils thrown wide open to 
the light of heaven, and see if we cannot exorcise them. 
We will make a thorough investigation, David Lindsay, 
for I have quite resolved to take up my abode, for the 
present at least, in that goblin-haunted house, and I feel 
that, in doing so, I am right.” 


CHAPTER XXL 

GHOST HALL. 

There is so foul a rumor in the air, 

The shadow of a presence so atrocious. 

How could a human creature enter there, 

Even the most ferocious ? 

Thomas Hood. 

“ Well, young master, the road turns right here,” said 
the driver, drawing up his mules. 


Ghost Hall. 


281 


David Lindsay looked out of the wagon. 

On his left lay the dark river, with the snow-covered 
valley beyond it. 

On his right towered the stupendous precipice of the 
Iron Mountain, cleft down from summit to base, show- 
ing a ravine of wildly shattered rocks, bristling with 
clumps of stunted cedar trees, all dimly seen in the 
darkness of the winter night. 

“ You don’t call that a pass, do you ?” inquired David 
Lindsay, incredulously, peering out into the gloom. 

“ Dat’s de road, young marster, sure’s yer born. 
Yer better look at it good, ’fore yer make up yer mind 
to try it.” 

David Lindsay drew in his head and spoke to his 
companion. 

Look out and tell me if you still persist in going 
on,” he said. 

I will look out just to please you., but I am bent on 
going on !” she replied, as she came forward and gazed 
up the ravine. 

“ Well ?” inquired young Lindsay. 

“ Well, it looks threatening — very ! But I said that 
I was bent to go on ! Where the mules can go, I 
can go,” she persisted. 

“ Drive on !” exclaimed the young man to the driver. 

Tubal did not “ drive,” however. He slowly descended 
from his seat and came to the mules’ heads and led 
them on. 

It was well, perhaps, that the heavy wagon-cover con- 
cealed the terrors of the road that otherwise must have 
been discovered even through the darkness of the night, 
and daunted Gloria’s unconquered spirit. 

After a precipitous descent and the crossing of the 


282 


Gloria. 


stream, the young travelers in the wagon became con- 
scious that the road was rising diagonally up the moun- 
tain side. 

When they had ascended some considerable distance, 
David Lindsay put his head out to peer through the 
shadows and survey the scene. 

He found that they were climbing a steep, narrow 
road on the face of the mountain, with a towering prec- 
ipice on their right and a falling one on their left, and 
no room for any vehicle to pass that should chance to 
meet the wagon. 

He drew in his head and was careful to say nothing 
to his companion of what he had seen. A single start 
of the mules — a misstep — a balk — would be destruction 
to man and beast — for over and down the face of the 
precipice they would go. 

Higher and higher they climbed, and climbed for 
hours and hours. 

Then they began to descend — slowly and heavily for 
perhaps an hour longer. 

Finally old Tubal pulled up his mules, stood to 
recover his breath, and then came to the front opening 
in the cover of the wagon, and said : 

Well, young marster, here we is at the gate lodge o’ 
Ghost Hall, or Debbil’s Den, which ebber yer likes 
for to call it. I’ll let yer out here^ young marster, for I 
tell yer good^ no money yer could pay down to me would 
’duceme to pass t’rough dem dere gates ob hell !” 

“ Come, come. Tubal, don’t use such strong language 
before a young lady,” said David Lindsay, as he 
descended from the wagon and helped his companion to 
alight. 

“ I don’t use no stronger language than what de good 


Ghost HalL 


283 


book uses anyways. Help me to lift de trunk out, 
young marster.” 

“ Let us see first whether there is any one up in the 
gate-house,” said David Lindsay, as he left the side of 
the wagon. 

Then he suddenly stood still gazing. 

The sombre scene around them had a weird glamour 
that spell-bound him to the spot. 

“ What place is this ?” he muttered to himself. It is 
like a place seen in a dream. It might be a place in 
some other planet, in some dead earth, or extinct sun !” 

It w'as an awful scene ! Mountains rose on every 
side, their bases clothed with dark forest. 

Nearer and dimly visible under the overclouded night 
sky, towered hideous black ' rocks, and dark, spectral 
pine trees that seemed to take goblin shapes in the 
obscurity. Far back on the right hand, from the midst 
of these, and scarcely to be distinguished from them, 
loomed the roof and chimneys of Gryphynshold. 

The utter silence as of death that reigned over all, 
added to the gloom, approaching horror, of this stupen- 
dous scene. 

David Lindsay turned from it with a feeling of super- 
stitious awe, to the formidable iron gate in the stone 
wall that ran along the old park on the right hand of 
the road. 

The gate was not locked, but hung heavily upon its 
strong, rusty hinges, shut by its own weight. 

On the right of this gate some outlines of an old 
lodge could be dimly seen among clustering cedar trees. 

But no light appeared to indicate where door or win- 
dow might be. 

“ De old 'oman has gone to bed hours ago, most like/’ 


284 


Gloria. 


pleasantly remarked the wagoner, as David Lindsay 
passed though the iron gate and the wild thicket of 
cedar hushes and rapped at the door of the dark house. 

“ Who is there ?” almost immediately inquired a voice 
from within. 

Nobody to hurt yer, ole mist’ess !” shouted Tubal, 
who was leaning up against a post of the gate, utterly 
refusing to enter the haunted grounds. ‘‘Nobody to 
hurt yer, ole mist’ess ! Yer knows me — Tubal Cum- 
mings, from Wolf’s Gap Ferry. I done fotch a young 
lady and gempleman here what’s come to wisit yer.” 

There was a sound of movement in the dark house, 
and presently a light gleamed through the joints of the 
windows, and soon afterward the door was opened by 
an elderly woman, who stood on the threshold, bear- 
ing a flaming tallow candle high above her head, and 
exclaiming : 

“Uncle Tubal! Do you say you have brought 
visitors here at this place, at this hour of the night ? 
Who are they, and what do they want ?” 

“ Dat’s jes’ what dey mus’ ’splain for deirselves, 
Mist’ess Brent. Yer don’t catch dis ole chile cornin’ in 
dere to tell yer !” exclaimed the man, beating a retreat 
to the shelter of his wagon. 

“ Tell her precisely who we are, David Lindsay. 
Tell her the exact truth,” said Gloria, coming to his 
side. 

Young Lindsay went up to the housekeeper and 
Gloria followed closely. They could not see the face of 
the woman, for the candle she held aloft cast her into 
deep shadow. 

“Let m» introduce myself and this young lady, 
madam — ” 


Ghost Hall. 


285 


“Who are you, then?” abruptly interrupted the 
housekeeper. 

“ This is the young lady of the manor. You will 
probably recognize her when you look at her, though I 
hear you have not seen her since she was seven years 
old. I have the honor to be her husband, and my 
name is Lindsay,” replied the young man. 

“ Gra-cious Heav-ens !” cried the woman, lowering 
the candle, and holding it closely under the stranger’s 
nose, to the great danger of his silky beard. 

“ Look at me^ Mrs. Brent, and see if you can remember 
me,” said Gloria, with a smile. 

The candle was quickly transferred from the danger 
of singeing David’s mustache to that of scorching 
Gloria’s nose, as the old housekeeper peered into the 
girl’s face. 

“Ye-es. N-no. I don’t know. I see something in 
the eyes like, but — ” 

The old woman stopped and put the candle so close 
to the girl’s brow that Gloria started and shrank back. 

“ Pray do not keep the young lady standing out here 
in this bitter cold. She is already chilled and weary. 
Let us come in. We expected to find you at the house 
yonder. But that being shut up and deserted, we must 
beg shelter from you even here,” persisted David Lind- 
say. 

“ Oh, yes, to be sure. Come in. I did not get your 
letter, indeed I did not, sir, or I should have been ready 
for you. But you see Wolf’s Gap — that’s the nearest 
post-office — is a long way off, and we never send there 
except four times a year, when Mr. Cummings, the over- 
seer, sends in his quarterly reports. I didn’t get your 
letter to say you were coming. I am very sorry, ma’am, 


286 


Gloria, 


that there is nothing better than this poor house to ask 
you to, but such as it is, you are welcome,” said Mrs. 
Brent, as she led the young pair into a large room, in 
which a great fire of hickory logs smouldered luridly in 
the deep, broad chimney -place. 

She lighted a second candle and placed both on the 
mantel-shelf, and then took from a large deal box near 
the chimney corner a handful of dry brushwood and 
put it under the smouldering logs, kindling them into a 
ruddy blaze. ^ 

Finally she placed two chip-bottomed chairs before 
the fire and invited her visitors to be seated. 

“ So sorry I did not get your letter, indeed, sir,” she 
repeated, as she once more stirred the fire. 

“ We did not write. There was no time. We made 
up our minds rather suddenly, one day, to come down 
here, and we started the same evening,” said Gloria, as 
she leaned back in her chair and stretched her half- 
frozen feet and hands to the genial blaze. 

“ Oh, indeed, theu, I feel so relieved ! Of course, you 
could not have expected to find the house prepared for 
you, and are not disappointed,” exclaimed Mrs. Brent. 

“ I am sorry to say that we are rather so ; for we 
expected to find you living up at the hall, and some 
rooms at least kept in readiness for just such a con- 
tingency as this,” replied Gloria. 

Living up at the other house ! Oh, young lady, you 
don’t know ! But I’ll say nothing about that now. I am 
so grieved not to have things comfortable for you here !” 

“ Never mind — never mind !” exclaimed Gloria, good- 
naturedly. “ To-morrow is a new day, and everything 
can be arranged then. As for to-night, we are both so 
tired with our week’s ride that I think we could rest 


Ghost Hall. 


i>87 


comfortably in any motionless place. I shall remain here 
with you, and Mr. Lindsay will get our wagoner to show 
him the way to the overseer’s house, where he proposes 
to lodge.” 

“ But that is such a pity, to separate you two ! Though, 
indeed, I have got only one bedroom— the one above 
this — there are two beds in it. I and my niece sleep 
in one. The other is vacant and at your service, ma’am, 
if you don’t object to sharing our room with us,” said 
Mrs. Brent, apologetically. 

“ Not at all ! I shall be so glad to lie down any- 
where after sitting up for a week,” answered Gloria. 

“ But you would like some supper, sir ?” inquired the 
housekeeper, turning to David Lindsay. 

“ No, I thank you. We had supper at Wolf’s Gap, 
and we only need rest. Gloria, I will go out and speak 
to the wagoner, and see if he is ready to guide me to the 
overseer’s house. I will also get him to help me in with 
your trunk,” he whispered, as he arose and left the 
room. 

Gloria now, for the first time since her arrival, looked 
at the apartment and its occupant. It was a large, rude 
place, with a bare, flagstone floor, bare, unplastered stone 
walls ; in front a heavy oaken door, flanked by two 
large windows, whose very sills were stone ; a ceiling 
with heavy rafters crossing it, and finally, the immense, 
yawning fireplace, with its iron dogs supporting the 
great, smouldering hickory legs from whence the light 
blaze of brushwood had already died away. 

The furniture was as rude as the room — heavy oaken 
chairs and tables, a spacious dresser with broad shelves 
reaching from the floor to ceiling, and furnished with 


288 


GloiHa. 


all the crockery ware, cutlery, tin, pewter, and iron 
utensils of the little menage. 

In another corner a tall, coffin-like old clock stood, 
with its foot on the flagstone floor, and its head to the 
rafters. A rug of home-made rag carpet lay before the 
fire, and mats of a similar material lay before the front 
and back doors. 

That was all. It was a rude, plain room. 

From the contemplation of the place Gloria turned to 
the inhabitant. 

The latter was a tall, thin, dark-skinned woman with 
small, deep-set black eyes that had a watchful, sidelong, 
frightened glance, like those of a person who had suffered 
one overwhelming terror and was continually looking 
out for another. Her hair was quite white and parted 
smoothly over her forehead, and confined by a close white 
linen cap tied under her chin. She wore a long, narrow, 
black gown, without a scrap of white about her neck or 
hands. 

“ This is a poor, rude place for you to be in, Mrs. 
Brent. Surely not to be compared with the comfortable 
apartments that must have been assigned you in the 
manor house,” said Gloria, compassionately. 

“ Oh, young lady, don’t mention the manor house. 
Don’t ! You don’t know ; you ca7it know. But I’ll say 
nothing more about that now. Here comes the gentle- 
man.” David Lindsay had pushed open the door, and 
was coming in, holding one handle of the trunk while 
Tubal Cummings held the other. 

They sat it down on the floor, and Tubal immediately 
bolted, flinging behind him these words : 

“ I’ll wait for yer outside the gate, young marster. I 
can’t stay here indeed !” 


Ghost Hall. 


289 


David Lindsay laughed, saying : 

“ I had the utmost difficulty in persuading that old 
man to help me with the trunk. I had at length to 
bribe him heavily before he would venture to do it. 
And what do you suppose he means to do, after leaving 
me at the overseer’s V 

“ What ?” inquired Gloria. 

“ Go all the way back to Wolf’s Gap to-night.” 

I know he declared that he would do so ; but I did 
not think he would keep his word,” replied Gloria. 

“ Now, dear, in mercy to the old fellow who has such 
a long way to return, I must bid you good-night. You, 
also, need rest so much that you had better go to bed 
as soon as possible.” So saying, David Lindsay took her 
hand, pressed it and left the lodge. 

The old housekeeper stared. 

“Is that the way your husband takes leave of you ? 
I never did! I really never did T she said. 

“ We understand each other,” said Gloria smiling. 

“ Well, if you do, I suppose that is enough,” muttered 
Mrs. Brent, who all this time was busy beating up 
eggs with sugar in a bowl, while something spicy sim- 
mered in a saucepan before the fire. 

Now she took the saucepan and slowly poured its 
contents over the beaten eggs in the bowl, stirring 
thoroughly with a spoon as she poured. 

Then she filled a tumbler with the pungent and fra- 
grant compound, and gave it to Gloria, saying kindly : 

“ Take this, honey. It is as nice a glass of spiced 
mulled cider as ever I brewed in m)^ life. It will warm 
you all through, and drive out any cold you may have 
caught.” 

Gloria smiled, and thanked her kind hostess, and took 


290 


Gloria. 


and sipped the spicy beverage which she found deli- 
cious in taste and delightful in effect. 

The housekeeper filled a second glass for herself, and 
sat down and sipped it for company. 

“ I should have offered to make some for your gentle- 
man, honey, only as he was going out in the cold again 
it would have done him more harm than good. 
Besides, to tell the honest truth, I don’t think such 
indulgence in drink is good for young men anyhow. 
They begin with cider, and are too apt to end with 
rum.” 

Very much revived and comforted, Gloria finished her 
mulled cider and put her glass upon the mantelpiece. 

‘‘Now, then, dear, we will go up-stairs to bed,” said 
Mrs. Brent, placing her own glass beside the other one, 
and blowing out one candle and taking the other. 

“Are you,not going to lock the door ?” inquired the 
visitor. 

“ Law, child, why ? There is no one to molest us — 
except those that no locks can keep out. However, I’ll do it 
to please you,” said Mrs Brent, going to the door and 
turning the key. 

“ Thank you very much,” said the young lady. 

“You’re welcome, honey. Now, then, come to bed,” 
she added, as she led the way through the back door to 
a narrow passa'ge from which a staircase ascended to 
the upper room. 

Gloria picked up her carpet-bag and followed her 
conductress. 

The room above was of the same size with the one 
below — like that, the walls were of hewn stone, 
unplastered, but the floor was of heavy oak planks. 
There were three large windows in front, all hung with 


Ghost Hall. 


291 


coarse blue and white plaid cotton curtains. There 
was a fire-place, a size smaller than the one below ; a 
pine- table, with a small standing looking-glass on it, 
under the middle window, opposite the fire. There 
were two beds in the corners of the room, with their low 
head-boards immediately under the two end windows, 
on each side of the rude dressing-table. 

One of these beds was smoothly made up, as if wait- 
ing its occupant. The other was tumbled and tenanted. 

“ Come here,” said Mrs. Brent in a whisper, going 
towards the latter. 

Gloria followed her and beheld the sleeper, who, in 
some restlessness, had thrown off the cover, revealing 
her head, breast and arms. 

She was a very young girl, with a delicate faee and 
fragile form, fair, transparent complexion, blooming 
rosy-red on cheeks and lips, very light, golden-red hair 
clustering in glittering tendrils around the white fore- 
head and roseate cheeks, and with petite features. She 
would have been a perfect little beauty but for some 
irregularities that were even more piquante and charm- 
ing than any classic perfection could possibly be. First, 
her dark brown eyebrows were of the fly-away pattern, 
depressed towards the bridge of the nose and raised 
towards the temples. Her tiny nose, no bigger than 
a baby’s, was the most dainty, yet the most decided 
pug that ever was seen. Her upper lip was short, and 
her chin pointed. The whole character and expression 
of the fair, dainty, petite face, was sly, roguish, mischiev- 
ous, not to say impish and malign. One arm, the under 
one, as she lay upon her right side, was drawn back 
with crooked elbow and clenched little fist. The other 
arm, the upper one, was thrown over the pillow, also 


292 


Gloria, 


with crooked elbow and clenched little fist. The atti- 
tude of the little sleeping beauty was a belligerent one. 

“ Now that’s my niece Philly — Philippa, you know, 
ma’am — and that’s the way she always sleeps. Just like 
a kitten or a puppy that is dreaming of a fight. Now 
just you watch !” 

'With these words Mrs. Brent took hold of the 
shoulder of the sleeper, exclaiming : 

“ Phil ! Phil ! wake up ! Move farther ! You’ll 
tumble out of the bed !” 

The sleeper gave a little growl and a great bounce, 
and threw herself over on her other side, striking another 
aggressive attitude, and immediately relapsed into deep 
sleep. Gloria could not help laughing as she said : 

“ She is very pretty and very good-humored, I am 
sure, notwithstanding that she dreams of fights !” 

“ Oh, yes, she is a good girl enough, but an awful 
trial for all that !” 

“Your niece, you said ?” 

“ Yes, my niece,” repeated the housekeeper, as she 
covered the sleeping girl and set the candle on the 
mantelpiece. 

Then, while the two undressed and prepared for bed, 
Mrs. Brent volunteered some further information. 

“You see there’s a good many Cummings’ around 
•about here, of a good old Scotch family, too. Did you 
never read of the Red Corny ns and the Black Comyns 
in your school-books, honey ?” 

“ Oh, yes !” 

“ Well, these Cummings are of the same old clan. I 
was a Cummings myself before I was married. I am a 
lone widow now, you know.” 

“ Yes, I have heard so.” 


Ghost Hall, 


293 


“ Well, I had three brothers. Alexander, who is the 
landlord and ferryman and post-master down at Wolf’s 
Gap ; and Ralph, who is your overseer here ; and last of 
all, poor Cuthbert, my youngest brother, who was the 
father of this girl, Philly. He used to drive the 
stage between Wolf’s Gap and Hill Top in North Caro- 
liny, but he and his wife have been in heaven this many 
a day. Philly used first to live with Aleck at Wolf’s 
Gap. I, having no children of my own and being lone- 
some like, have adopted the orphan. And a great 
charge she is to me ! Why ma’am, I had ratber under- 
take ten boys than one such girl. She rides the wildest 
horses; she hunts the worst game. Yes! She rides, 
shoots and hunts like a wild Indian I And even dreams 
of it when she sleeps.” 

“ I shall like Philly ! I am sure I shall like Philly ! 
There is something in her” exclaimed Gloria, as she got 
into her own bed and drew the cover closely up around 
her neck, for it was keenly cold up in these mountain 
regions, so that the great wood fire scarcely sufficed to 
warm the room. 

The housekeeper blew out the candle and laid herself 
down to rest. 

Gloria, utterly prostrated with her week’s ride, no 
sooner laid her head upon the pillow than she dropped 
into a deep and dreamless sleep that lasted until far into 
the next morning. 

When she awoke, at length, the sun was shining in 
through the blue and white checked curtains. 

She looked around in some confusion on the rude, 
unplastered walls and ceiling, the bare oak floor, and 
the unpainted wooden chairs and table, quite unable to 


294 


Gloria, 


remember where she was ; but in a few moments mem- 
ory returned, and she understood the situation. 

There was no one but herself in the room, which was 
now restored to perfect order, the other bed being- 
made up, the fire replenished, the hearth swept, and 
fresh water and clean towels placed on the rude dress- 
ing-table. 

“ They have all got up and left me to sleep my 
fatigue off, I suppose,” she said, as she left the bed and 
began to make her plain morning toilet. 

She was soon dressed in a dark blue cashmere gown, 
with white linen cuffs and collar, and a black bow. 

Then she went down stairs and found Mrs. Brent in 
the lower room, and seated before the fire engaged in 
carding wool. 

“ Good-morning, honey ! You have had a real good 
sleep, and I hope it has done you good !” she said, ris- 
ing, and placing a chair to the fire for her young guest. 

“ Indeed I have, Mrs. Brent ; thank you. It must be 
very late.” 

“ Look at the clock, my dear. It is after ten. Well, 
I am glad you slept so long. I would not have dis- 
turbed you if you had slept all day. Now you are down 
I will get you a bit of breakfast in a few moments,” 
said. Mrs. Brent, as she took up a tea-kettle which was 
sitting on the hearth before the fire, and hung it over 
the blaze, where it immediately began to sing for boil- 
ing. 

“ Has any one — I mean has Mr. Lindsay been here 
this morning.?” inquired Gloria. 

“ Oh, yes, honey. Mr. Lindsay and my brother, the 
overseer, you know, were here by seven o’clock this 
morning ; but Mr. Lindsay wouldn’t let you be dis- 


Ghost Hall, 


295 


turbed on no account. He asked me to keep every- 
thing very quiet, so as to let you sleep as long as possi- 
ble, which I am sure I have done, my dear,” replied the 
housekeeper while she was taking the.tea-pot and the 
cannister from the dresser to make the tea.” 

“ Where are they now ?” inquired Gloria. 

Oh, they went right off up to the old house to open 
and air it. Yes, more than three hours ago,” answered 
the dame, as she made the tea and set it to draw. 

When will they be back ?” 

“ Well, when they have done the job, I guess ; but I 
don’t know when that will be,” replied the dame, as 
she took two dressed partridges from a plate on the shelf, 
and laid them over the fire. 

You see,” she added, as she took a cedar board 
about the size of a shingle, and plastered one side of it 
over with a thick corn-meal batter, and put it before the 
fire, propped up by a smoothing-iron. ‘‘You see, they 
will have to open all the doors and windows from cel- 
lar to garret, and kindle fires in every fire-place — that 
will take them pretty much all day.” 

“ Well, I think, if you will kindly direct me, I will 
walk up to the house as soon as I have taken breakfast.” 

“ I would advise you not to go yet awhile, honey,” 
said the housekeeper. 

And now she became so busy — laying the cloth, then 
turning the johnny-cake, putting the crockery- ware 
on the table, then turning the partridges — flying quickly 
from hearth to cupboard, and from cupboard to fire-place 
— that Gloria could keep up no sustained conversation. 

“ Now, then, sit up and take your breakfast, my 
dear,” said Mrs. Brent, when .she had at last got the 
frugal morning meal upon the table. 


296 


Gloria, 


“ These partridges are delicious,” said Gloria, when, 
with an appetite whetted by the keen mountain air, she 
had eaten a half of one. 

“Yes, that’s ■ some of Philly’s game! She shot 
them on Saturday, The imp is good for something. 
Only you see, honey, when she goes out I am always 
in a dread that she’ll never get back alive. Maybe 
never be heard of again until her bones are found 
bleaching in some rocky ledge 1” 

“ Oh, how dreadful 1 You ought not to entertain such 
dismal thoughts !” 

“ I can’t help it, honey, when that girl goes on as she 
does 1” 

“ Would you have such fears for a boy ?” 

“ Lord, no 1 My nephews, Ralph’s boys, go hunt- 
ing almost every day and keep the hotel down there at 
Wolf’s Gap supplied with game ; but they are boys'" 

“ Well, and she’s a girl.” 

“ But they know how to take care of themselves.” 

“ And so does she, I have no doubt, a great deal 
better than they do 1 I like Philly. I am sure I shall 
like her very much ! Where is she now ?” 

“ Oh, gone out with her gun and dogs. What do I 
tell you ? When she isn’t about some mischief she is 
dreaming of it.!’ 

“ I am her debtor for a delicious breakfast. I will 
not hear her blamed. I like Phil, better the more I 
think of her. I admire her all the more for having such 
a dauntless spirit in such a little, fragile body.” 

Gloria had scarcely spoken these words when there 
was a sudden and tumultuous entrance of a girl in a 
cap, jacket, short skirt, and long boots, with a game-bag 


Ghost Hall. 


297 


slung over her shoulders, a fowling-piece in her hands, 
and a couple of dogs at her heels. 

She set her gun down with a ringing clank in the 
corner, then pulled her game-bag off and threw it on 
the floor at the feet of the old lady, exclaiming : 

^^■There^ auntie ! There's a treat for your dinner ! 
Eight brace of birds, and all bagged in less than two 
hours ! Say ! have you got any fresh meat for ^neas 
and Dido ? Good dogs ! Good dogs !” she continued, 
patting the heads of a fine pointer and a finer retriever. 

My dear, don’t you see a lady present ?” said the 
housekeeper, in an admonishing tone. 

The girl seemed to see the lady for the first time. 
She fell back a step or two, dropped her chin upon her 
chest, turned up her eyes shyly, and put her finger in 
her mouth like a stupid and awkward child in the pres- 
ence of a stranger. 

“ Mrs. Lindsay, this young person is my naughty 
niece, Philippa.” 

“ I am glad to see you. Miss Cummings,” said Gloria, 
who could not help thinking all that awkward shyness 
was just put on for the fun of the thing. 

“ My name is Phil. I don’t know myself by any other 
name,” replied the girl, giving her hat a push that 
cocked it on one side of her curling, salmon-colored 
hair, and gave an additional air of impishness to the 
mischievous face beneath. 

“ Then I am even gladder to see you, Phil ! Gladder 
than I should be to see Miss Cummings. I hope we will 
be friends. Shall we, Phil ?” 

“ I don’t know — may be — I think So — if you don’t 
begin to put on airs with us,” slowly and condescend- 
ingly replied the elf. 


298 


Gloria, 


“ I hope I shall do nothing so silly. Why should you 
suspect me ?” 

“ Oh, I know you are our young lady of the manor, and 
have come with your fine husband, who is a very great 
man indeed, to take possession of everything ! If the 
ghosts up there will let you. Ah !” said the imp, with a 
malign leer in her beautiful, long, light blue eyes. 

“ I am truly sorry, but I am really not to blame for 
being your lady of the manor. It was a providential 
arrangement in which I was no more consulted than I 
was about being born. I hope you will forgive me for 
finding myself in such an obnoxious position, and be 
my friend,” said Gloria, with a good-humored sarcasm 
that seemed to win the impish creature before her. 

“ I don’t know what I can do for you. I don’t know 
how to be anybody’s friend unless I can do something 
for them, I can do nothing for you but keep you in 
birds and hares and such. That is not much. They 
are so plenty in the forests below here,” said Phil 
thoughtfully. 

That is much more than I shall be able to do for you.” 

“ I don’t want anybody to do anything for me, and 
what’s more, I won’t have it. I want to do all the 
doing myself.” 

“ Oh, you proud little sinner ! Well, there is some- 
thing I want you to do for me right away. You know 
the path up the house. Will you show it to me ?” 

“ Yes, I will go there with you, but not right away ! 
I must feed ^neas and Dido first, auntie ! I know 
Uncle Ralph slaughtered an ox last week and sent a lot 
of beef. I want a couple of pounds of sirloin for my 
dogs, and I am going to get it,” said the elfish being, 
throwing off her cap and hurrying out of the back door. 


Ghost Hall, 


299 


“ Now that’s the way, honey, she always does ! She’s 
going to feed them dogs with the best meat in the 
house !” complained the old lady. 

“ Well, the dogs have helped her to provide the finest 
game,” said Gloria. 

‘‘ Ah, I see, my dear, you are going to encourage that 
girl ! I see it quite plain ! Well, I wish you would 
take her altogether as a seamstress, or housekeeper, if 
it were possible She could be either, or in any way she 
could be useful or entertaining to you ; for, indeed, I 
am anxious to get her away from this sort of wild life 
that keeps me always in a fever !” 

“ Perhaps I may take you at your word, Mrs. Brent, 
if Phil is agreeable ; but what would you do without 
her ?” 

Oh, first-rate ! I would take Marthy, Aleck’s young- 
est daughter ! She*s older than Phil., and is a first-rate 
spinner and weaver and seamstress, and house-girl 
generally. I could do a deal better with Marthy than 
with this Witch-a-windy !” 

As the old lady spoke, Phil came in and said : 

“ Well, I’ve given the beauties one full meal, if they 
never get another ! And now I am ready to go with 
you to Gryphynshold, Mrs. — Mrs. — ' Oh, look here now 
— bosh ! You don’t look a bit more of a woman than I 
am myself, and if I am to be expected to call you Mrs. 
— What’s-her-name, or Anything, our compact of friend- 
ship is going to fall through.” 

“ You may call me anything you wish,” said Gloria. 

“ Well, what is your other name ?” demanded Phil. 

“ Maria de Gloria de la Vera,” repeated the young 
lady, with a merry twinkle of her eyes. 


300 


Gloria, 


“ Mar — ree — ar — dar — Say it over again, please,” 
exclaimed Phil, stretching her blue eyes. 

“ Maria de Gloria de la Vera,” repeated the young 
lady, repressing an inclination to laugh. 

“ Der — lar — Vay — rah ! Heaven and earth and the 
other place ! I forget one end before I understand the 
other ! That will never do I Say, what do they call 
you at home, when they are in a hurry, you know, and 
haven’t got time to sit down and repeat it all over slowly 
at their leisure ?” 

“They call me Gloria.” 

“ Glo — ree — ah ! Well, that is three long syllables — a 
great deal too long for a short and- busy lifetime ! I 
would rather call you Glo’.” 

“ Quite right, my dear Phil. You may call me Glo’.” 

“ It suits you, too, for there’s a glow all around you ! 
Well, then, Glo’, I am ready to escort you to Gryphyns- 
hold. Ghost Hall, Devil’s Den, for by all these names is 
your manor-house known, lady,” said the strange girl, 
as she put on her hat and stood waiting. 

“ I will be with you in a moment,” exclaimed Gloria, 
as she started up and left the room. She ran up stairs 
to put on her fur sack and cap, and then hurried down 
to join her escort. 



CHAPTER XXII. 

WITHIN THE SHADOW. 

Over all there hung a cloud of fear, 

A sense of mystery the spirit daunted. 

That said, as plain as whispered in the ear, 

“The space is haunted.” 

Thomas Hood, 

The two young girls walked out of the lodge and 
found themselves in a thicket of stunted cedar trees, 
that, because they were higher than her head, prevented 
Gloria from beholding one of the most magnificent and 
stupendous landscapes in the country. 

A few steps farther, however, brought them out upon 
the private road that led up to the house. 

It was a road so utterly neglected that the thicket of 
cedars on each side nearly met in the middle, and would 
have prevented any other than a foot-passenger from 
passing along it. 

This old road led upward all the way to a thickly- 
wooded knoll, on the summit of which,. quite buried in 
pine and cedar trees, stood the old gray stone building 
with its heavy oaken doors and heavy oaken-shuttered 
windows. These were all wide open to the sun and air 
now 


302 


Gloria. 


“ Were you here when your grandmother — I mean 
your auntie, left the house ?” inquired Gloria, as they 
approached the stone portico leading to the door. 

“ No — oh, dear, no ! I never lived here ! I always 
wanted to, though !” replied the girl. 

‘‘Come and stay with me, then, for a while, for I 
should like very much to have you.” 

“ And, oh, how I should like to come !” 

“ And you would not be afraid of the ghosts ?” 

“ No ! I don’t believe in them ! I wish I could ! I 
would rather see a ghost — if such a being exists — than 
anything else in the world ! That is the reason why I 
want to live in this house — to watch and wait all day in 
lonesome rooms, and lay awake all night in hope of see- 
ing a ghost. And if there is any particularly evil 
haunted room in the house — that is the one I wish to 
sleep in.” 

“You shall be accommodated,” said Gloria, with a smile, 
as she went up the moss-grown steps to the wide-open 
door — a corresponding door at the back of the hall stood, 
also, wide open, giving a vista through the spacious hall 
that was paved with flagstones of gray rock, and fur- 
nished with rude benches of oak and mats of cedar shav- 
ings. A broad staircase ascended from the middle of 
the floor. And near each side of the foot of this stair- 
case, were broad, open chimneys in which great fires of 
brush-wood blazed, at once clearing the atmosphere and 
heating the place. Yet neither the brilliant sunshine, 
pouring in through the open doors, nor the genial fire 
flaming up the 'chimneys, could dispel a certain air of 
gloom that pervaded the house, depressing all who were 
within it. 

Four inner doors — two on each side — were also open, 


Within the Shadow. 


303 


giving views of large, lofty rooms, all with flag-stone 
floors and bare stone walls, and rude, plain oak chairs 
and tables. No carpets, no curtains, no pictures varied 
the coarse monotony of their aspect. 

David Lindsay came out from one of the rooms, and 
seeing Gloria, exclaimed : 

“ You here ! I had hoped to have had things in some 
better order before letting you see the old house. But, 
how are you ? I hope you slept well and are refreshed.” 

“ Thanks. Yes, to all your questions. And now I 
wish to go all over the house,” said the young lady. 

“ In its present condition it is fit for nothing but a barn 
or store-house ! The more I see of it the more easily I 
can conceive of the savage nature of the men who built 
and lived in it ; and the more I wonder at its purchase 
by such a manias the late Count de la Vera ! But the 
mountains are supposed to be rich in mineral wealth for 
any who have money, and enterprise enough to work 
them.” 

While the two spoke together, Mrs. Brent and one of 
her nephews came into the front door. 

“ Well, honey, you see as soon as I righted up the 
house, I felt as if I ought to come here and see if I 
could be useful ; but I felt most afraid to come up 
that lonesome road by myself, and maybe I mightn’t a 
got here, after all, if young Jim hadn’t come along with 
a quarter of mutton for the larder, and I just made him 
stop and bear me company,” she said, as she went to one 
of the fires and began to warm her hands. 

Are the rooms up stairs as bad or worse than these ?” 
inquired Gloria, after she had inspected all on the lower 
floor. 

“ Oh, they are better. Come up and see them, honey. 


304 


Gloria. 


The bed-rooms are all good, and the beds are well pre- 
served. You see, honey, the place has not been so badly 
neglected as you might think. I have done something 
to earn my salary. I have come up here in the day once 
every week with some of the niggers, and had the place 
opened and aired and fires made in the bed-rooms to 
dry the dampness,” said Mrs. Brent, as she led the way 
up the broad staircase. 

“ Well, except that these chambers are drier and 
cleaner, they have not much to boast of beyond the 
rooms below. The whole house is awful gloomy. One 
does not need to see a ghost here. One feels that it is 
haunted,” said Gloria, shuddering, as she completed her 
inspection of the upper rooms. 

“ Yes, honey, even in the daytime, with the blessed sun 
shining in at all the open windows, and^Deople going up 
and down. Then just think what it must have been at 
night with no one but my lone self up here and an old 
colored man and woman in the kitchen down stairs — after 
what I had seen and heard^ toof muttered the old lady, 
turning pale. 

“ You ? Is it possible, Mrs. Brent, that there can be 
any foundation for these absurd stories circulated 
amongst the superstitious colored people, and that you 
yourself have had any cause to credit them ?” inquired 
Gloria, in great surprise. 

“Now see here, honey, I put it to yourself. What 
did you say yourself, just now ? ‘ One feels that it is 

haunted.' " 

“Oh, yes, by the memory of all the stories of mad 
orgies and atrocious deeds that we have heard of the 
furious old Gryphyns who used to live here, and — the 
curse that fell upon them. The air is full of maledictions ! 


Within the Shadow, 


305 


Haunted by these, Mrs. Brent. Spirits terrible enough 
to daunt the bravest, yet not visible ghosts,” said the 
young lady. 

“ That which I saw and heard, I saw and heardi' sol- 
emnly answered the housekeeper, sinking down in an 
old, green chintz covered arm-chair on one side of the 
fire that had been kindled in one of the bed-rooms. 

“ What was it, Mrs. Brent ?” inquired Gloria, her 
curiosity getting the better of her discretion, as she 
drew a chair to the side of the old lady and seated her- 
self. 

“ It was that which drove me out of this large, once 
comfortable and convenient house, to take refuge in 
that rough, deserted porter’s lodge, at the gate, and has 
prevented me from ever coming back here except in 
broad daylight, and with plenty of people to keep me 
company.” 

“ But what was it, then, Mrs. Brent ?” 

“ Nor was that the only time I saw and heard what 
was not of this world ! No, nor of heaven either ! Nor 
am 1 the only one who has seen and heard things about 
this place enough to raise the hair and curdle the blood 
of the boldest man in the country.” 

“ Oh, but you have not told me yet what has been 
seen and heard about this haunted spot to strike such 
terror into the hearts of men,” said Gloria, beginning 
to be infected by the superstitious fears of her com- 
panion, 

“ An evil spirit from the pit ! and those he brings 
with him !” muttered the housekeeper in a low voice. 

“ What do you mean ?” inquired Gloria, in hushed 
tones. 

“ The last master of Gryphynshold — old Dyvyd 


3o6 


Gloria. 


Gryphyn ! He whose life was the wickedest of all 
the v/icked ones that had gone before him ! He who 
turned his young wife, or sweetheart — no one knows 
which she was — out of doors in the middle of a bitter 
cold J anuary night to perish of cold, as she did on the 
mountain side ! He who that next day was killed in 
a wicked duel, and whose body lies buried in the uncon- 
secrated earth of the family burial ground — for they 
were all infidels, and wouldn’t let a minister of the 
Gospel come on the premises. He it is whose spirit 
cannot rest in the grave, or tarry even with his fellow- 
devils in the pit, but walks continually up and down 
through house and thicket in the darkness of the dark- 
est hours in the night !” 

“ And you have seen him ?” questioned Gloria, with 
incredulous astonishment. 

“ I was the first to see and hear him after his being 
killed in the duel. It was no dream, ma’am, it was no 
delusion, though you look as if you thought so ! It was 
late at night — the night after that poor young creature 
had been torn from her bed and turned out to die of cold 
on the mountain. It was a still, cold, freezing night — 
one of those silent, bitter winter nights when the frost 
seems to steal into the very marrow of your bones. I 
was sitting by the big fire in the front hall, waiting for 
the master to come home so that I could let him in. I 
had sent all the servants to bed, because they were tired 
with their work, poor things ! and, besides, they would 
have to get up so early in the morning that they could 
not afford to lose their rest. Well, I was sitting there 
before the fire, with my knees roasting and my back 
freezing, and not a sound to be heard all over the 
house, not even a cricket or a mouse. I don’t know 


Within the Shadow. 


307 


which was the most awful, the stillness or the ‘ cold. 
Suddenly — ” 

“Well, suddenly what?” eagerly demanded Gloria, 
seeing that the old lady paused longer than necessary. 

“ Suddenly there came on the stillness a violent, 
rush, as of a great gust of wind, that forced the front 
door open. I jumped up in a panic, but dropped down 
again ; for there stood the master, pale as a corpse, with 
a ghastly wound on his temple, from which the blood 
was slowly trickling down his cheek. He did not stop 
a moment, but glaring at me, strode down the hall, and 
up the staircase, and disappeared at the top.” 

“ Good Heavens !” 

“ I was a strong woman at that time, but I came near 
swooning, for I thought it was the master himself in 
the flesh, and that he had got his death- wound some- 
how. But soon rallying myself, I got up and shut the 
front door, and bolted and barred it. The night was 
now as still and breathless as it had been before Davyd 
Gryphyn rushed in with that furious wind. After I had 
fastened the door I went up to the room over the 
kitchen in the back building, and waked up old Tubal, 
who was then the only man-servant about the house. 

“ ‘ Tubal,’ I said, ‘ rise and dress quickly. Your 
master has just come home, dangerously wounded.’ 
Perhaps I ought then to have gone directly to the 
assistance of the supposed wounded man, but, somehow, 
I felt afraid to go alone. Old Tubal, who had been too 
much accustomed to scenes of violence and their results, 
in that house, to be very much shocked at what I told 
him, merely grunted forth : 

It’s nothing more ’n I expected,’ and then hastened 


3o8 


Gloria. 


to dress himself and follow me to his master’s room. 
Well, when we got there — ” 

“ Yes ! when you got there I” eagerly exclaimed 
Gloria, who would hardly let the old lady pause for 
breath. 

“ There was no master to be seen! No sign of a master. 
We looked through some of the nearer rooms, but with- 
out finding him. Then we sat down in his room and 
waited, thinking that he might have gone somewhere 
about the house, and would be back soon. We waited 
and waited, until at length I became alarmed ; for I 
thought he might have fainted from loss of blood in 
some other part of the house. Then old Tubal and 
myself recommenced our search and went into every 
room, closet and passage of the house from the attic to 
the cellar, but without finding any trace of D5rvyd 
Gryphyn.” 

“ And was he never found ?” inquired Gloria, in a 
tone of awe. 

“ Yes, honey, his body had been found twenty miles 
away, hours before his spirit appeared to me in the hall. 
At sunrise the next morning, the men who had found it 
on the duelling ground the other side of Wolf’s Gap, 
arrived with it at the hall here. There was an inquest, 
of course, and then the truth came out.” 

“ What was the truth ?” 

“ Why, it seems that on the occasion of the last feast 
that D3wyd Gryphyn held here when he was drunker 
than usual, he sent for his young wife, and made her 
come down and sing for his wild companions. She had 
a beautiful voice. They were all mad that night. 
They shocked and terrified the poor thing so that near 
niorning she escaped and fled from them, and locked 


Within the Shadow, 


309 


herself up in her room in a state bordering upon distrac- 
tion.” 

“ Yes, yes,d have heard that story before.” 

“ Well, when the man came to his senses the next 
day, he rode away with his guests as far as Wolf’s Gap, 
where they all stopped to rest and drink. They spoke 
rudely of Gryphyn’s hidden beauty, and one man — a 
Colonel Murdockson — boasted of signs and signals that 
the lady had given him the night before, to the effect 
that she was ready to run away with him.” 

“ Revolting !” 

“ It was as false as the father of lies ! Yet Dyvyd 
Gryphyn, with the furious jealousy of his race, believed 
the slander. He challenged Murdockson on the spot, 
and the meeting was arranged to take place the next 
afternoon in the hollow below Wolf’s Gap.” 

Gloria shuddered. 

The meeting was to be without seconds, and it was 
only to end in the death of one or both. When all was 
settled, Dyvyd Gryphyn set out to return home, arrived 
only at midnight, strode to his wife’s chamber, dragged 
her out of bed and thrust her out in the midnight 
storm to perish on the mountains, as she did, for her 
body was also found — though, as the bi-rds of prey had 
been the first to discover it, it was hardly recogniz- 
able.” 

1 have heard that, too !” shuddered Gloria. 

“ I only refer to that in its connection with the duel. 
The next morning he left home to fight it, although we, 
at Gryphynshold, had no suspicion of what was afoot. 
And that night I waited for him as usual when— 
spectre came. After the inquest, and the verdict in 
•accordance with the facts, the body of Dyvyd Gryphyn 


310 


Gloria, 


was buried out yonder, as I told you. But his spectre 
still haunts the place.” 

“ What became of Murdockson ?” 

“ He left the neighborhood after the duel, and has 
never been heard of since. You see, ma’am, there were 
circumstances of horrible atrocity connected with that 
affair, which I have not had the courage to tell you yet. 
I may some time. Ah ! here comes Mr. Lindsay.” 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

WHAT PHILIPPA SAW. 

A horrid spectre rises to my sight, 

Before my face, plain and palpable. 

Joanna Baillie. 

David Lindsay entered the room, with a graver air 
than usual overshadowing his frank countenance. 

Mrs. Brent arose and offered him her own chair by 
the fire. 

With a gesture, he silently thanked her, and signed 
that she should resume her seat, while he drew another 
to the hearth for himself, saying, as he sank into it : 

Well, I have been all over this house, from cellar to 
attic, and I must repeat now from knowledge what I 
said at first from suspicion, that this place is no home 
for any lady, and therefore none for you.” 

“ Why ?” inquired Gloria, with provoking coolness, 

« < Why ?’ My dear lady, the answer is in everything 


What Philippa Saw, 




around you — in the desolation, the dreariness, the 
solitude — ” 

“ I do not want company,” interrupted Gloria. 

“ In its remoteness from all the life of the world — ” 

“ And I do want to be very quiet,” added Gloria. 

In its dilapidation and dampness.” 

“ Good fires can rectify the one immediately, and 
good workmen the other in due time.” 

“ Finally, in the evil reputation of the place,” said the 
young man, solemnly. 

“ Now, David Lindsay, if you mean the rumors about 
the house being haunted, that is just what attracts me 
to it !” said Gloria, archly. 

“ It is not that idle rumor to which I refer. A place 
that has been little better than a stronghold of godless 
revellers, gamblers, drunkards, duellists, murderers^ if all 
be true that is told of them, is no proper home for any 
lady, not to sayy^^^. It is only fit to be turned into a 
smelting-furnace for the treasures of iron ore said to be 
hidden in the depths of these mountains,” gravely con- 
cluded the young man. 

“ Oh, then you don’t believe that the house is 
haunted,” said Gloria, good-humoredly. 

“ It is haunted by the association of atrocious crimes 
and bitter sufferings, if by no other ghosts. Lady dear, 
I wish you would not think of living here,” he pleaded. 

“ The poor old place is in no way to blame for the evil 
lives of the monsters who once lived here and have now 
gone to where they belong — to Pandemonium. I shall 
stay here, David Lindsay, until I have become familiar 
with every part of the house, and acquainted with every 
part of the mountain. If I grow weary of the place I 
shall take Phil Cummings for a companion, and one 


312 


Gloria, 


of her old uncles for an escort, and return to Washing- 
ton.” 

As Gloria said this, the housekeeper, who sat be- 
tween the young pair, looked from one to the other, 
and with the bluntness that belonged to her nature and 
circumstances, exclaimed : 

“ Why, surely, if you go, Mr. Lindsay must escort you 
himself.” 

“ Mr. Lindsay has business that will compel his return 
North as soon as he sees me settled in my home,” coldly 
replied Gloria. 

David Lindsay’s fine face fiushed, and then grew pale. 

“Well, I suppose, such a big estate as yours, ma’am 
— for I am told that Gryphynshold is but a small portion 
of it, and that the bulk of it is in Maryland — will require 
a deal of attention, not to say what the gentleman’s own 
affairs may call for ; but one would think you would 
have settled all that before you came down here, so as 
not to be separated so soon again. It seems such a 
pity,” said the housekeeper, sympathetically. 

Gloria did not reply, and David Lindsay could not. 

“Well, I didn’t sit down here to idle away my time. 
I must go to the linen room and see to getting out the 
things to make up the beds — though, dear me, when I 
come to think of how long they have been packed 
away in the cedar chests, I don’t believe they will be fit 
for use, for yellowness and closeness,” said the house- 
keeper, getting up to leave the room. 

“ I will go with you,” said Gloria, rising to follow Mrs. 
Brent, for her sensitive conscience and sympathetic 
spirit made her dread a tete-d-iete with David Lindsay 
almost as much as she had ever dreaded one with her 
uncle ; not that she thought, for one instant, that the 


What Philippa Saw. 


313 


pure-hearted and noble-minded young fisherman would 
ever, under any temptation, or for any reason, break 
his word to her, or take the slightest unfair advantage 
of his position towards her. 

She knew that he never would do that. She knew 
also that he would never plead for the love that she was 
unwilling to give him ; that he would never invoke her 
pity by any look or tone expressive of the disappoint- 
ment and humiliation, the sorrow and distress he really 
suffered, and which she intuitively knew that he suf- 
fered. No, but she vras afraid of herself. She could 
trust David Lindsay utterly, but she could not trust 
herself. 

She had loved David Lindsay from their childhood 
up ; but she had never been “ in love ” with him, or 
with any one, and she had never wished to marry him, 
or any other ; but driven by the very spite and stress of 
fate, she had married him, and immediately afterwards 
realized what a mad, fatal, irreparable error she had 
committed in uniting her fate to that of one so utterly 
unfitted by birth, position, and education to be her hus- 
band ! 

Yet there were moments now when the memory of 
their lifelong, innocent, childish affection for each other 
melted her heart to tears ; when the contemplation of 
his magnanimity filled her mind with admiration ; when 
all that was best in her own nature bridged the gulf 
between them, and almost impelled her hands and lips 
and voice to go where her spirit had gone before. 

She was afraid that in some such moments as this she 
should cast her arms around the neck of her young hus- 
band, and press her lips to his and say : 

“ You saved me once from death, and once from worse 


Gloria, 


3H 


than that. You love me more than I deserve. You 
merit all my love. I am your wife. Do not leave me.” 

She was in danger of saying this every hour — and she 
did not wish to say it. 

Now she hurried after the old housekeeper, who led 
the way to a room at the end of the hall, fitted up with 
shelves above and drawers below, all around the walls. 
These were, however, empty, and two ^arge cedar 
chests that stood in the middle of the floor seemed to 
contain all the household linen. 

Mrs. Brent drew a key from her pocket and unlocked 
one of the chests, from which a heavy aromatic odor of 
sweet herbs and spices arose. 

“ I used to take out these things and air them every 
summer, but ot late years, seeing that they never 
seemed to come into any use, I gave up doing that, and 
just contented myself with putting more dried lavender 
and basil in them every fall,” she said, as she lifted out 
folded sheets, fine as cambric, yellow as saffron, and 
filled with the odor of sweet herbs. 

“ It is no use, honey,” continued the housekeeper 
“ these here things are not fit to be used. They will 
have to be washed and bleached first. I shall have to 
lend you some of mine. They are not so fine as these, 
but they are a deal whiter, so perhaps you will excuse 
them.” 

“ I shall be very thankful for the loan of them, Mrs. 
Brent,” said the young lady. 

“ Indeed you are welcome, my dear,” replied the 
housekeeper, who was still looking over the contents of 
the cedar chest. 

“ Now, Mrs. Brent, I wish to ask you — Have you 


What Philippa Saw, 


315 


never slept in this house since the night that — that 
Dyvyd Gryphyn was killed ?” 

“ And his ghost appeared to us here ? No, ma’am. 
Never since that night have I slept in this house. The 
officers of the law occupied it the next day, and after 
the inquest the undertaker had possession until the 
funeral. While that was going on I slept at my brother’s 
house. Then I had the furniture of my part of the 
house moved down to the gate lodge, which was empty 
at that time, and I have lived there ever since ; only, as 
I told you before, coming up here, in broad daylight, 
with a lot of the colored people to keep me in courage, 
while I had the house opened and aired. This I have 
done faithfully every week all the year round, ever 
since the last master’s dreadful death.” 

“ And you have never seen anything to recall the hor- 
rors of that night ?” 

Not much, ma’am, because I have always visited it 
in broad daylight, as 1 have told you.” 

“Well, now that the place is thrown open to the sun 
and air, and Mr. Lindsay and myself are here to take 
possession, and your niece Philippa and a number of 
the colored servants, whom we shall bring in, you will 
not be afraid to join us ?” 

“ You mean to come back and live here ?” inquired 
the housekeeper somewhat startled. 

“ Yes, to come and live here. I shall want a house- 
keeper in the house to look after the servants. I shall 
also need a matron, as a protector for myself during 
the absence of Mr. Lindsay ; or, to speak more correctly, 
I should say, after the departure of Mr. Lindsay. I 
would give you for your sleeping-room, one of the best 
bed-chambers in the house, the next to my own, for cotn- 


3i6 


Gloria, 


pany, and your niece could sleep with you for closer com- 
pany. Come, what do you say ?” 

“ Oh, ma’am, I know not what to say. Of course, I 
know that I must do one thing or the other. As long as 
you need a housekeeper in the house, I must either 
come and live here or else I must give up my situation 
and let some other woman take it who would come and 
live in the house. 1 have held the situation of house- 
keeper at Gryphynshold for twenty-five years, and I 
don’t like to give up a post that I expected to live and 
die in ; and, on the other hand, I am afeared to sleep in 
this house.” 

“ Well, Mrs. Brent,” said Gloria, with more firmness 
than she had ever given herself credit for possessing, “ I 
do not wish to hurry you. Take your time to decide 
what you will do ; but let me know your answer before 
Mr. Lindsay goes away ; for it will be necessary for me 
to find some matronly protection before his departure.” 

“ And dear me, that will be so soon,” said the house- 
keeper. 

“ Yes ; but listen. Your years of faithful service will 
not be forgotten. If you decide to leave me you shall 
have six months’ wages in advance ; but if you decide 
to stay I will do anything in the world that I can do to 
make you happy.” 

“ My dear young lady, would you let me try it a little 
while before deciding ?” inquired the old housekeeper. 

“ How do you mean ?” asked Gloria. 

“ Let me try if I can stay here. If nothing happens, such 
as happened on that horrible night, why I might stay 
and spend the rest of my life here ; but if anything of 
that sort should come again, if it shouldn’t frighten me 


What Philippa Saw. 


317 


to death on the spot, it would, at least, scare me away 
^rom the house forever.” 

“ Such a night of horror is not likely to return in our 
lifetime. I accept your terms, Mrs. Brent, and I am 
very glad to do so. I should dislike to lose you.” 

“ Thanky, honey ; so should I,” replied the old woman, 
rather obscurely. Then : “ When would you like me 

to come in, ma’am ?” she inquired. 

“ As soon as you possibly can.” 

“ Well, I think I can come to-day. As you were so 
kind as to say that you would give me a room next to 
your own, I shall not need to move the furniture from 
the lodge-house, as these rooms are already furnished. 
Now, honey. I’ll go down and see to preparing the 
dinner.” 

“ Thanks, and — please send your niece up to me, Mrs. 
Brent,” said Gloria, who still shrank from a tete-d-tete 
with David Lindsay. 

Philippa came dancing up stairs and into the room. 

There’s an army in the old house, and I am afraid 
they’ll rout the ghosts !” she exclaimed. “Just think of 
it ! They have all the field negroes — who have not 
much to do outside at this season of the year, you know 
— ^in the house, busy scrubbing, scouring, mopping, 
sweeping, dusting, and what not.” 

“ Then they will get through all the sooner, for which 
I shall be very glad,” said Gloria. 

“Oh, they will get through to-night ! And 

then we shall have peace for some time ; for they can’t 
begin any repairs until the spring, you know.” 

“ I don’t want any repairs. The house is wind and 
water proof, and that is all that is necessary besides 


3i8 


Gloria. 


cleanliness. Fresh paint and new wall paper would 
utterly spoil it,” 

“ I think this inroad of mops and brooms and scrub- 
bing-brushes has spoiled it already. Oh, the poor 
ghosts ! I am so sorry for the ghosts. Yes, and for 
myself, too. I was so in hopes of seeing a ghost,” sighed 
Philippa, with a look of downright disappointment. 

“ Why should you wish to see a ghost, if such a being 
ever exists ?” inquired Gloria. 

“ Why, oh why ? Because the apparition of a real 
ghost would be proof positive of the life after death,” 
said Philippa, quite seriously. 

“ But your Christian faith should assure you of that, 
if you have faith.” 

‘‘ Oh, yes, I have faith^ of course I have faith. Why, 
I have been confirmed, child, so of course I have faith ; 
but what I want is certainty. I want to see a ghost who 
can tell me all about it. There is nothing in this hum- 
drum world I should like so well as a good, comfortable, 
sitting down, leisurely gossip with a real ghost ! Or a 
midnight visit from a departed spirit, who would take a 
chair at my bed-side and answer all my questions,” 
said Philippa ; and she looked as if she meant it. 

“ You would be frightened out of your wits !” 
exclaimed Gloria. 

“Not I? What would I have to fear? Who ever 
heard of a ghost hurting anybody ? Of all the absurd 
cowardice, I think the fear of ghosts must be the weak- 
est ! Why, if the very wickedest old Gryphyn that ever 
killed and ate his grandmother, was to appear to me 
and try to bulldoze me, all I would say would be — 
‘ Ah ha, old rooster ! Your comb is cut now ! Flesh and 
blood have no longer anything to fear from you ! Clear 


What Philippa Saw. 


319 


out, or I will throw my prayer-book at your head ' — for 
of course you know I wouldn’t care about hearing what 
he could tell me of the other world ! But, oh dear ! 
there is not the slightest probability of interviewing a 
spirit, good or evil, now. These commonplace, unimag- 
inative sweepers, and dusters, and moppers, and 
scrubbers have exorcised them all — unless — Come 
with me, Madame Gloria. I will show you a place that 
they haven’t invaded yet, and if that place is not con- 
secrated or cursed to the use of ghosts. I’ll give them 
up,” said Philippa, suddenly rising. 

Gloria, carried away by the impetuosity of her com- 
panion, arose and followed her. 

Philippa led the way down stairs and down the main 
hall to a side door that opened into a long, dark, narrow 
passage leading through an ell of the building. 

At the end of this she opened another door leading 
down a deep and narrow flight of stairs to a dark 
cellar. 

At the foot of these stairs she stopped and said : 

“ Wait. I brought a piece of candle with me and a 
match. We must have a light before we go a step 
farther.” 

And while Gloria stood there, Philippa snapped a 
match and lighted the end of the tallow candle, which, 
however, only showed a small ray in the midst of the 
deep darkness. 

They stepped down now upon the flagstone floor of 
the cellar, which seemed quite dry. Groping along with 
their feeble ligtit, they explored the walls, which were 
arched and divided into bills and niches — some of them 
with rusty iron doors — places which made the two girls 
shudder. 


320 


Gloria. 


In one corner of this place they found a door which, 
when they opened it, revealed, in the dim light of the 
candle, a ladder leading down to a subterranean room 
below the cellar. 

“ Oh, look here !” whispered Philippa. “ Look here ! 
In the deepest deep a deeper deep !” 

“ Oh, come away ! Come away ! Come away directly 
and shut the door ! There is a dreadful air arises from 
that place !” exclaimed Gloria, shrinking back. 

“ ‘ Come awa)",’ indeed ! Not much ! I am going 
down these stairs to see what is at the bottom. You 
can stay here until I come back, but I cannot leave you 
the candle, you know,” obstinately replied the stubborn 
girl. 

In vain Gloria sought to dissuade her from her" pur- 
pose. She was as stubborn and intractable as a young 
mule, and she began to go down the ladder. 

Gloria, seeing her so determined, had no other alterna- 
tive but to follow her willful guide. 

A foul air, impreg’ vted with must and mould and 
dampness, met th^m. They could scarcely breathe, the 
candle could scarcely burn in the impure, oppressive 
atmosphere. 

“ Oh, if you would only not persist,” moaned Gloria, 
as holding on to the sides of the ladder, she groped her 
way down after her conductor. 

“ But I must persist,” replied Philippa, who had now” 
reached the bottom. 

With some danger and difficulty Gloria descended the 
ladder and stood by her side. 

The feeble rays of the candle showed but a small 
circle of light just around them. All beyond was utter 
darkness. 



‘‘ MV AU. 


DON’T YOU SDK 


A LADY PRESENT?” -iSVf» Pane 207. 







t 





t « 









? ^ 


^ * k v*S 






-'i 

j#^,' « *jir ► ■ ^ 








What Philippa Saw. 


321 


Suddenly Gloria grasped the arm of her companion 
and shuddered. 

“ What's the matter ?" demanded Philippa. 

“ Listen !" 

“ What ?” 

“ Don’t you hear something ?” 

“ No !” 

“ Oh, listen ! There it is again !” 

“ What, I say ?” 

“That moaning, gurgling sound, as of some one 
strangling and groaning !” 

“ Oh, that is the sound of some subterranean, pent-up 
stream. I have found such in the caves under these 
mountains, and I have heard that the foundations of 
this house communicate with a chain of caverns open- 
ing from one into another under the whole breadth of 
the mountain base, and more than one stream of water 
must traverse them,” said Philippa. 

“ Then this is a very dangerous place ! This is far 
down under the deepest foundations of the house, and 
in this utter darkness we might step into a stream of 
water, and be swept away and drowned ! And oh ! of 
all the gates that lead into the other life, a black water 
gate must be the most appalling ! Do come back, 
Philippa !” 

“ I cannot ! Something draws me on ! But you keep 
behind me. I will go on before. If I should disappear, 
either down into a cave or into a subterranean stream, 
do you turn and go back to the upper world by the way 
you came.” 

“ This is foolish, foolhardy, wicked^ Philippa.” 

“ I know it is, but I cannot help it. Something draws 
me on, I tell you !” exclaimed the willful creature. And 


322 


Gloria. 


at the same moment she stumbled, recovered herself, 
and held the candle close to the ground to see what the 
obstacle had been. 

“ Oh, gracious Heaven, what is this ?” cried Philippa, 
in a tone of sickening horror, as she recoiled from the 
object. 

“ What is it V* whispered Gloria, in a frightened 
voice. 

“ Look ! Look !” gasped Philippa. 

Gloria caught the candle from the girl’s shaking 
hand, held it down, peered into the obscurity, and 
instantly sprang back with a piercing shriek. 

They were on the very brink of a black torrent that 
rushed along through the depths of a deep and yawn- 
ing gulch. Another moment — another step, and they 
must have plunged down the precipice into the dark 
water of that buried river, and been whirled on to 
destruction in the darkest depths of the abyss. 

But it was not even that impending doom that had 
appalled them ! 

It was the dire object that rose from the earth on the 
bank of the chasm ! 

For a moment they stood clinging together, half petri- 
fied, and then, without a word, turned and fled to the 
foot of the ladder, and climbed it with tumultuous 
haste. On reaching the cellar over this cavern, they 
hurried across it to the door leading up stairs to the 
back building communicating with the house. 

Pale, breathless, trembling, they at length found 
themselves in the great hall, with its doors and windows 
open to the wholesome sun and air, and cheerful wood 
fires burning in the broad fire-places. 



CHAPTER XXIV. 

HORROR. 

This chamber is the ghostly ! 

Hood. 

Oh, Madame Gloria! I’ve done bragging! I’ll 
never brag any more ! I did pray to my guardian angel 
if he’d only save my life and reason until I could get out 
of that place I would never brag any more !” exclaimed 
Philippa, with a hysterical laugh, as she dropped on 
one of the rude oak benches in the hall. 

“Oh, Philippa, don’t speak so lightly of that awful — !” 
cried Gloria, suddenly stopping and covering her pallid 
face with both hands, as she, too, sank upon a seat. 

“ Lightly ? — Gracious Heaven ! I don’t speak lightly ! 
All my boasted courage has come out in a cold sweat 
that trickles like ice water all down my spine ! Madam 
Gloria, I would rather have seen the blackest evil spirit 
from the abyss, all alone at midnight, than - that horrid 
— Ugh-h-h !” 

“ Philippa ! for Heaven’s sake, don’t speak of it now, 
or ever more ! You are a brave girl — ” 

“I will never say so after this. I’m conquered 
quite !” shuddered the willful creature. 

“You have seen what would have shaken the nerves 


324 


Gloria. 


of the boldest man ; it is no wonder that yon are over- 
come as well as myself. But, Philippa,* I beg you, for 
my sake, never mention to a human being what we 
have seen below. If it were once known what our eyes 
have beheld — what rises from the brink of that subter- 
ranean black river — the horror below the foundation of 
these walls — no living being could be induced to remain 
in the house with us.” 

Shall you remain ?” whispered Philippa, in a tone of 
wonder. 

“Yes.” 

“ Oh, why ?” 

“ Because I said I would, and I should be ashamed to 
retract. I will not be ejected, even by that appalling — 
Oh ! let us not speak of it, even to each other. And 
never, never to any one else. Your aunt would never 
come near the house, even by day, if she knew of that 
dire presence below, and I wish her to remain with us, 
Philippa. I say ‘ us,* because I feel sure that you will 
stay with me.” 

“Yes, I will stay and I will keep the secret,” whis- 
pered the girl. 

“ The cellar and the horrible cave below it, with the 
black river, have long been disused, if ever, indeed, 
they were used at all. I will have the two doors at the 
head of the two flights of stairs leading down to the 
abyss nailed up to-day. The foul air from below will 
be excuse enough for that.” 

“ There be some that cannot be kept out by locks, or 
bolts, or bars, or nailed-up doors — no, nor even by tons 
of stone and earth ! And of such was what we saw !** 

“ Oh, hush, hush, hush ! Why do you dwell upon 
that ? Oh, that we both could drink of the waters of 


Horror, 


325 


Lethe and forget it !” whispered Gloria, as she covered 
her face with her hands and shuddered. 

At this moment a lucky interruption ended their dis- 
mal conversation. 

Mrs. Brent came walking briskly from one of the side 
rooms, saying : 

“ Come, now, ma’am, dinner is ready — not such a 
dinner as I hope to- set before you every day for the 
future, but just such a one as I could get up under the 
circumstances to-day. 

I have no doubt it will be delicious and just what we 
like. As for me, I prefer what are called picked up 
dinners ’ — simple little dishes. The sight of big joints 
takes away my appetite,” said Gloria, as she arose and 
followed her conductress into the room from which the 
latter had emerged. 

It was the front room on the left-hand side of the 
hall — a large room, with an oak floor uncarpeted, stone 
walls unplastered, two tall front windows, uncurtained, 
and a broad fireplace, where blazed a rousing, fragrant 
fire of pine and cedar wood. 

An oaken table, covered with a coarse, clean white 
cloth, stood in the middle of the room, set for dinner ; 
two oaken chairs were placed for the master and mis- 
tress of the house. 

David Lindsay stood before the fire, but on seeing 
Gloria, came forward to meet her. 

“You look pale and worried,” he said, as he took her 
hand. 

“ Yes, I have been going over the house and I feel 
tired,” she replied. 

“ And hungry, I hope, to do justice to the dainty 


326 


Gloria, 


repast Mrs. Brent has prepared for us,” he added, as he 
led her to the table and drew out her chair. 

“ Now come, Mrs. Brent and Philippa, you must both 
sit down and dine with us to-day. Don’t let it be said 
that we had to take our dinner alone on the first day of 
our arrival at home,” said Gloria. 

David Lindsay immediately arose and placed two 
more chairs at the table. 

“ Oh, we couldn’t think of it, ma’am, indeed !” 
answered the housekeeper, drawing away. 

Gloria urged and David pleaded, but Mrs. Brent per- 
sisted in her refusal, until at length Gloria got up and 
left the table, saying : 

“ Very well, then, I will not eat a single morsel of 
dinner until you and Phil join us.” 

“ Oh, /’ll submit at once, laughed Philippa, taking 
one of the vacant chairs. 

“ Do^ Mrs. Brent, humor the fancy of our willful little 
lady,” said David Lindsay as he arose and placed his 
hand on the back of another chair, inviting the old 
woman to take it. 

“ You are a couple of spoiled children, that’s what you 
are, and you ought both to be at school instead of being 
married, and that is the fact,” laughed the housekeeper, 
as, not really unwillingly, she took her place at the table 
with the genial young pair. 

“Now, that is settled. The precedent — don’t they 
call it a precedent in the courts of law, David? — the 
precedent is established. Henceforth you are to take 
your meals with us, dear Mrs. Brent, just as if you were 
our mother, and Philippi were our sister ; for we have 
neither mother nor sister on this earth — I mean David 
nor I — and, besides, really, we four are too few to be 


Horror. 


327 


separated in this lonesome place,” said the little lady of 
the house, as she settled herself to enjoy her dinner as 
well as she could under the circumstances and the mem- 
ory of the afternoon’s horror. 

It was a very limited dinner, consisting of just what 
was at hand and could be cooked in a huiTy ; but it was 
a very dainty dinner, notwithstanding ; there were 
delicioiis broiled venison steaks, light biscuits, fresh but- 
ter, a baked custard, preserved mountain cherries, tea, 
coffee, and cream. 

David Lindsay and Mrs. Brent fully appreciated the 
good things, and proved that they did so. 

But neither Gloria nor Philippa could so far over- 
come the effect of that ghastly terror in the cave as to 
relish anything that was set before them. 

As this late meal was to serve as both dinner and sup- 
per for the small household on this day of bustle, they 
sat rather long at the table, not leaving it, in fact, until 
the short tallow candles that had been placed upon it 
began to burn low in their sockets. 

Then David Lindsay and Gloria withdrew from the 
dining-room and went into the parlor on the opposite 
side of the hall. 

There, also, a fine fire was burning, and a table was 
drawn up before the hearth, flanked by two straight- 
backed, chip-bottomed chairs. 

“ What would Miss Agrippina de Crespigney say, if 
she could have seen her niece, the ‘ Countess Gloria,’ 
sitting down at the table with her housekeeper?” 
inquired David Lindsay, with a smile, as they seated 
themselves near the fire. 

“ Oh, for Heaven’s sake, drop that ! I never was 
intended for a fine lady, David Lindsay— never !— 


328 


Gloria. 


much less for a countess ! I love people., David Lindsay. 
I never want to keep them at a distance. I want to 
draw them closer to me,” she murmured, in a tender 
tone, with her eyes fixed dreamily upon the fire. 

“ Then love me, draw me nearer to you, and my life’s 
devotion shall be yours,” was in his'heart and almost 
on his lips to say ; but he put away the selfish thought 
and continued silent. 

It was growing late, and they were both very tired. 

Gloria was the first to rise. 

“ Good-night, David ‘ Lindsay,” she said as she took 
one of the tallow candles from the chimney shelf to light 
her steps. 

“ Good-night,” he answered, in gentle tones. 

“ Your room,” she resumed, and then she hesitated, 
holding the candle in her hand and looking down on 
the floor — your room is the one over the dining-room. 
You will find everything prepared there for your com- 
fort.” 

“ I thank you — ^very much,” answered the young man, 
in a low and broken voice. 

Good-night,” she said, still hesitating. 

“ Good-night, lady dear.” 

“ God— bless — you, David Lindsay,” she added, fal- 
tering. 

“ And you, too ! God bless you, Gloria,” he 
answered. 

She went out of the room ; but as she turned to shut 
the door, she caught sight of his face. It wore a look 
of weary sorrow, such as he never would have willingly 
permitted her to see ; and suddenly she sat down her 
candle on the hall bench, ran back into the room, threw 


Horror. 


329 


her arms around his neck and kissed his forehead, sob- 
bing forth the words : 

“ Oh, David Lindsay, I am so sorry — so sorry ! But 
I can't help it. Indeed, I can’t, dear David Lindsay !” 

With a look of ineffable tenderness, he put his arm 
around her waist and drew her close to his heart, and 
would have returned her kiss, but she suddenly broke 
from him, and ran out of the room. She caught up her 
candle from the hall table, flew up stairs to her own 
chamber, shut the door, and flung herself down on the 
bed in a passion of tears. 

“ Oh-h-h ! what a hard, cold, proud wretch I am ! 
What a ci*uel, wicked; unnatural monster ! But I cannot 
help it ! I cannot ! 1 don't want to be married — I do not. 
I love David Lindsay ! I do love him, dearly, dearly, 
dearly ; I always did love him better than anybody else 
in the whole world . Ah ! who is so good and grand as 
he is, within himself ? No one that I ever saw in this 
world. No one that I ever read of. But I don’t want 
to be his wife ! I don’t want to be anybody’s wife ! 
Oh, I wish I had stayed at the Sacred Heart, with the 
quiet sisters there !” 

She was interrupted in her passionate vehemence of 
self-reproaches and lamentations by the sound of light 
footsteps and cheerful voices approaching her door, and 
finally by a rapping at the same. 

She arose, composed herself as well as she could and 
went and opened to Mrs. Brent and Philippa, who had 
come to bid her good-night, and to ask if she would need 
anything more before they should retire to bed. 

Gloria thanked them, and said that she would require 
nothing. 

“ And if you should, you have only to knock on the 


330 


Gloria, 


door between us to let me know, for you see our room 
is just back of yours here,” added the housekeeper. 

I will remember,” replied Gloria, in a low tone. 

“ I suppose Mr. Lindsay will not want anything. I 
reckon he’ll be up before long. I left him sitting before 
the big parlor fire,” remarked Mrs. Brent. 

‘‘ I dare say,” answered Gloria, so wearily that the 
housekeeper bade her good-night and retired, followed 
by Philippa, who, since their fearful adventure in the 
cavern under the cellar, had been strangely silent and 
reserved. 

Gloria locked her door leading into the hall and bolted 
the one leading into the rear room occupied by the 
housekeeper. 

Then she replenished her fire from a box of wood 
that sat on one side of the hearth, and also threw on a 
number of resinous pine knots and cones, that their 
bright blaze might light up the large, gloomy chamber. 

Having done this, she proceeded to examine her room 
more carefully than she had yet done. 

It was one of the two front and principal bed-chambers 
in the house, being immediately above, and of the same 
dimensions with the “big parlor ” below. And, with 
the exception of the bed, which, in all its appointments, 
was very good, it was as rudely furnished. The walls 
and floor were perfectly bare. The windows were with- 
out curtains or shades, but were provided with unpainted 
oak shutters which closed from the outside. These two 
front windows faced the east ; between them stood an 
old oaken chest of drawers surmounted by a hanging 
mirror, so mildewed as to be scarcely useful. Each side 
of this old piece of furniture stood a high-backed, chip- 
bottomed chair, one under each window. 


Horror. 


331 


On the south side of the room was the broad open 
fire-place, with deep closets in the recesses on the right 
and left. 

On the west side was the high four-post bedstead, 
with its head against the partition wall, and its foot 
opposite the windows. On the side nearest the fireplace 
was the door leading into the rear room. 

On the north side was the door opening into the hall. 
In the corner between this hall door and the head of the 
bed was an old-fashioned piece of furniture of black 
walnut that reached from the lofty ceiling to the floor, 
and might have been a book-case, a clothes-press, a 
cabinet, or the three in one ; for the long, heavy black 
doors hanging open disclosed closets within closets, and 
shelves and drawers and pigeon-holes innumerable, and 
of all shapes and sizes. Yellow papers protruded from 
many compartments. 

Gloria made up her mind to investigate this ancient 
secretary at her leisure the next day. 

Then, having offered up her evening prayers and 
thanksgivings, she went to bed, and, notwithstanding 
care and anxiety, she soon fell asleep. 

David Lindsay sat long over the fire in the big par- 
lor ; not until all the household had been for hours in 
deep repose did he rouse himself to go to the chamber 
allotted to him over the dining-room. 

This was a large, square room, in all respects a coun- 
terpart of the one on the opposite side of the hall occu- 
pied by Gloria. It was furnished in the same rude 
style. 

The only difference was that this room was without 
the huge old escritoire, or secretary, that stood in the 
other. 


332 


Gloria, 


David Lindsay did not replenish his fire. It was 
nearly out, so he covered it up, blew out his snuff of 
candle, and retired to bed ; but not to sleep— at least, 
for a long time. 

He was as nearly heart-broken, poor fellow, as any 
youthful lover ever was. His pride was struggling 
with the sense of disappointment, humiliation and sor- 
row that seemed to be rushing him into despair. He 
felt sure that if his capricious but tender bride knew 
the tithe of his sufferings, she would give herself to 
him ; but not to her pity could he bear to owe his love. 
He must accept his fate, rather than lose his self-respect ; 
must see her in safety, and then depart. 

But how to secure her safety ? That was the question 
that kept him awake so long. 

At length, weary mind and body succumbed to sleep. 

Then a very strange thing happened. 

How long he had slept, he knew not ; at what time 
he awoke, or whether he really did awake, or only 
dreamt, he never could tell ; but it seemed to him that 
he was gently aroused from a deep and dreamless sleep, 
by the touch of a soft hand on his face, and the tone of 
a soft voice in his ear. 

“ Who is there ?” he murmured, only half conscious. 

The sweet, low-toned, pathetic voice answered : “ It 
is /, your mother. David Gryphyn^ arise ^ go hence., get to your 
home. My mother has somewhat to say to you. 

The soft voice, breathing flute-like over him, held his 
soul in a spell of silence and repose until it ceased. 

Then, wondering, he started up as from a dream. 

The room was perfectly dark, but he groped his way 
to the mantelpiece, where he had left the tallow-candle 
and the box of matches, and he struck a light. And, 


'*JFas it a Dr emu?'' 


^ ^ o 


still in great agitation, he went to both the chamber 
doors— the one leading into the hall, and the one lead- 
ing into the rear room— and examined them. They 
were both securely locked and bolted as he had left 
them. 

Then he went to the front windows, hoisted them, 
and threw open the heavy oaken shutters. A flood of 
light burst into the room. He found, to his surprise, 
that it was broad day and the sun was rising. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

“was it a dream?” 

Spirits have oftentimes descended 
Upon air slumbers, and the blessed ones 
Have in the calm and quiet of the soul 
Conversed with us. 

Shirley. 

Sunshine flowed into the room. Ailing it with dazzling 
light. Yet David Lindsay, after having opened the 
shutters and let down the window-sashes, stood in the 
middle of the floor, gazing down like one still half 
entranced, with the impression of that soft touch still 
on his brow, and the melody of that tender voice still in 
his ear. 

“ Was it a dream ?” he murmured to himself. 
“ Could it have been a dream ? No dream I ever had 
was ever so like reality. Or could some dreaming sleep- 
walker have entered my chamber and saluted me ? 
Impossible ! Yet, let me examine the doors once more.” 


334 


Gloria. 


He roused himself, and went again to investigate the 
fastenings on the only two outlets from the room — the 
first leading into the hall, and the second into the rear 
room. 

He found them both securely locked and bolted, and, 
moreover, the locks and bolts were both so strong and so 
rusty that they required some considerable exertion to 
move them. 

No one could have entered through the doors, that 
was certain. 

He looked into both closets that flanked the fire- 
place, but the bare plastered walls and oaken shelves 
afforded no opportunity of concealment or of passage. 

Every other nook and corner of the room was clearly 
visible in the bright sunshine. Even the space under 
the high bedstead was a vista. The plastered walls of 
the rooms, like those of the closets, gave no chance of a 
sliding panel for entrance or exit through a secret pas- 
sage. Nor could any one have come in or gone out 
through the windows, which, besides having been 
securely fastened with oaken shutters secured by strong 
and rusty iron hooks and bolts, were full fifty feet 
above the ground, with a sheer descent of stone wall 
below them, and no tree, or vine, or porch, or balcony 
to assist the climber. 

No ! it was utterly and entirely impossible that any 
human being, beside himself, could have been con- 
cealed in the room when he went to bed, or could have 
entered it afterward. 

And yet he had been awakened from a deep and 
dreamless sleep by a light touch on his forehead, and 
had perceived a benignant presence that he could not 
see, a presence which, to his half- conscious question of 


' ‘ IVas it a Dream f 


335 


“ Wlio is there ?” had answered in murmuring music, 
soft as the notes of an ^olian harp : 

“ It is I, your mother, David Gryphyn, arise, and go 
hence ; get to your home — my mother has somewhat to 
say to you.” 

And the soft voice sunk into silence, and when he 
started up and opened the window shutters, letting in 
the rays of the rising sun, there was nothing to be seen 
but the great bare walls and floor of the room, with its 
scant and rude furniture. 

David Lindsay sat down on one of the rough chairs, 
and took his head between his hands to think it over. 
He could make nothing of it. The voice had said : 
“ It is I, your mother.” But the voice was not at all 
like that of his mother, as he remembered hers. 
Again, the mysterious visitant had said, “ David Gry- 
phyn.” But his name was not David Gryphyn ; it 
was David Lindsay. Finally, it had concluded with 
these unaccountable words — “ Go hence and get to your 
home, for my mother has somewhat to communicate to 
you.” But his mother had no mother living on this 
earth, he knew. His mother had been an orphan when 
his father, James Lindsay, had married her- The 
old woman at his home. Dame Lindsay, was his grand- 
mother on his father’s side. 

The .dream, or vision, strange and real and super- 
human as it seemed, was an absurdly mixed-up affair, 
caused, no doubt, by confused memories and thoughts 
jumbled up together in his disturbed brain. So David 
Lindsay said to himself, yet he could not shake off the 
supernatural, perhaps even the superstitious effect, 
left upon his mind. 

’ He had been moving about and then sitting still in 


336 


Gloria. 


the cold room, just as he had jumped out of bed. He 
had been too much absorbed by his strange subject of 
thought to feel the chill that was creeping upon him. 

Now, however, as he aroused himself from useless 
reverie, he shivered and shook as with an ague, and 
hastened to the hearth and uncovered the smouldering 
coals and brands, and threw upon them several handfuls 
of resinous pine cones and knots taken from a box in 
the corner, and upon them several cedar sticks and logs 
from a pile in the opposite corner, that soon blazed up, 
filling the room with an agreeable warmth and pleasant 
fragrance. 

Then he dressed himself and went out. 

There was no one in the hall outside the bedcham- 
bers, so he could not tell whether he was not the only 
one up in this strange house. 

He passed down stairs and found the fires burning 
brightly in the broad front and back fire-places in the 
hall, but still no one was to be seen. 

He entered the “big parlor,” and found another 
pine fire there, but the room was empty. 

In the spirit of restlessness he wandered into every 
room on that floor, finding every one well warmed 
by great open .fires of costly logs — costly in every 
other locality, but cheap enough, because plenty enough 
on Cedar Mountain. 

These numerous fires were needed now, and would 
be needed for some time yet, to correct the damp- 
ness and bad air of the long-deserted house. 

Last of all he wandered into the dining-roocn where 
they had taken dinner and tea in one on the preced- 
ing day. 


‘‘ TVas it a Dr earn 


337 


Here the table was drawn up before the bright, blaz- 
ing fire, and neatly set for breakfast. 

“ What a home this is for Gloria to come to ! What a 
strange fascination it is that brings her here and keeps 
her here. Why, our poor little cottage on Sandy Isle 
is a civilized and refined home compared to this ! And 
we have the small comforts of life and a few books and 
a few little ornaments. And Promontory Hall is a 
queen’s palace to this. For here, in this unfinished and 
almost unfurnished place, there is not a papered wall, 
not a single carpet, nor a curtain, nor a picture, nor a 
cast, nor a book to be seen. It supplies only an 
inventory of negations. How can she stay here ? But 
there is one good in the place. She is as safe here, per- 
haps safer here with Mrs. Brent, than she would be 
anywhere else ; for I am not sure, if she were within 
the reach of her half-crazy guardian, that her marriage 
would be any protection against his persecution. Find- 
ing out this marriage to have been only a form, he 
might choose to ignore it and urge upon her the expe- 
diency of having it legally annulled. I cannot trust an 
infatuated man without religious principles to restrain 
him. Yes, she is better here for the present, and if I 
could get Miss de Crespigney to join her here, it would 
be the best thing that could happen for her ; for Miss 
Agrippina is too strictly principled not to hold to the 
sanctity of marriage vows, even in such a case as ours, 
and she would be now the best protection for my unlov- 
ing bride. I will try to get Miss Agrippina to come to 
her, even if I have to brave that lady’s rage.” 

So mused David Lindsay, sitting before the dining- 
room fire, until he was interrupted by the entrance of 
Mrs. Brent, bringing a coffee-pot in her hands and 


338 


Gloria. 


followed by a negro man with a large dish of broiled 
partridges. 

“ Dear me ! Good morning, sir ! You here ! I was 
just agoing to send Hector to let you know breakfast was 
ready ; for as I didn’t see you in the big parlor with 
Mrs. Lindsay, I thought you were still in your room,” 
said the good woman. 

I have been down some time ; but there was no one 
in the parlor when I looked in.” 

“ Mrs. Lindsay has only been there for a few minutes, 
sir. Here she comes now ! Now, Hector, bring in the 
muffins.” 

Gloria entered at the same moment. 

David Lindsay arose and placed a chair for her. They 
only said good-morning to each other by a look. 

The last dishes were set on the board, Philippa joined 
them, and they all sat down to the table, the girl just 
nodding by way of a morning salutation. 

‘‘ I hope you slept well, ma’am ?” said Mrs. Brent, 
interrogatively. 

“ Profoundly. I never even dreamed or stirred until 
morning ! If there be a ghost about the house it didn’t 
disturb me,” answered Gloria. 

“ Well, I suppose I should have slept quietly enough, 
too, if it hadn’t been for Philly ! She kept jumping, 
and starting, and talking, and crying out the live-long 
night,” said the housekeeper. 

Gloria looked at her young companion and saw that 
she was pale and anxious, yet Gloria did not dare to ask 
the reason, lest “Philly” should blurt out something 
about the ghastly apparition that had appalled them in 
the cavern. 

But Philippa spoke for herself. 


“ IVas it a Dream f 


339 


“ It was too much supper and the nightmare,’* she 
explained, with serio-comic gravity. 

As soon ^ as breakfast was over, Gloria left the table 
and retreated into the big parlor, followed by David 
Lindsay. 

Gloria had unpacked some materials for the silk 
embroidery which she liked so well to do. Now she had 
brought some down to the parlor with her, and she sat 
down and began to arrange it for work. 

“ If I were not still so extremely tired with my week’s 
rumbling over rough roads, I should like to go out to- 
day and explore some of this magnificent mountain 
scenery,” she said, as she threaded her needle. 

“ What ? In paths covered deep in snow and ice ?” 
queried David Lindsay, as he stood on the hearth with 
his elbow leaning on the mantelpiece. 

“Yes! It is not the condition of the ground that 
would prevent me ! It is my own state. I feel as 
weary and worn out as if I were seventy years old 
instead of seventeen. In fact, I feel my fatigue even 
more to-day than I did yesterday.” 

“ I am sorry to hear that. I had hoped that you had 
quite recovered. You said that you had slept so 
soundly.” 

“ That was from my deep weariness. Yes, I slept 
‘ like death * all night. But I will venture to say that 
you did not, David Lindsay. You look as if you had 
been interviewed by an unpleasant ghost I” said Gloria 
lightly. 

“ I have !” replied David Lindsay, with an assumed 
solemnity that imposed upon his companion. 

“What!” 

“ I have.” 


340 


Gloria. 


“ Do you know what I asked you ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And you say you have ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Been interviewed by a ghost ?” 

^‘Yes.” 

“ Oh, David Lindsay, what do you mean ?” demanded 
Gloria, in wonder and perplexity. 

“ My dear little lady, I mean very much of what I 
have said,” he gravely replied. 

“ Do explain yourself. Have you seen or heard any- 
thing extraordinary in this strange house ?” 

“ My dear lady, yes^ I have. Last night, or rather 
early this morning, I had an extraordinary dream, or 
vision — no, not vision, for I saw nothing — but visitation^ 
for I both felt and heard the presence,” said the young 
man, as seriously as before. 

“ Now, are you in earnest ? But of course you are. 
You would not jest on such a subject.” 

“ I am not jesting,” said the young man, gently. 
“ Yet it would seem absurd to be in earnest about the 
matter. In truth, I am perplexed. For, dear Gloria, I 
am not ready to deny or utterly disbelieve in the possi- 
bility of communication between the natural and the 
spiritual world — in the face of so much evidence from 
tradition and history and even from the Word of the 
Lord. What I experienced last night would have 
almost persuaded me to believe in the possible return 
of departed spirits, but for some strange inconsistency 
in the communication made me.” 

“ Tell me all about it, David Lindsay,” exclaimed 
Gloria, dropping her work upon her lap and gazing up 
at him. 


“ TVas it a Dream f‘ 


341 


Last night, after I went to my room, I locked and 
bolted both the doors and hooked and bolted both pairs 
of window-shtitters. Then I went to bed, and towards 
morning fell into a deep and dreamless sleep, such as 
would naturally follow the last week of excessive 
fatigue.” 

“ Like mine, yes.” 

“ From that death-like sleep I was gently but com- 
pletely awakened by feeling a light hand laid on my 
forehead. ‘Who is there?’ I called. A low, tender, 
flute-like voice replied : ‘ It is I, your mother. David 

Gryphyn, arise, and go hence — get to your home. My 
mother has somewhat to say to you.’ ” 

“ Gracious Heaven, David Lindsay, do you tell me 
that !” exclaimed Gloria, turning pale. 

“Yes, but whether this was a dream or a visitation, I 
cannot tell you. I must say it was more like a visita- 
tion.” 

“ What did you do or say ?” 

“ Nothing at first. I felt spell-bound — dumb- 
founded.” 

“ Did you see this mysterious visitant ?” 

“No, I only felt her hand on my forehead and heard 
her voice in my ears.” 

“ Did she speak again ?” 

“ No.” 

“ Then what did you do ?” 

“ I sprang out of bed and threw open the window- 
shutters. The sun was rising and filled the room full 
of light. I searched the place thoroughly, and found 
no one ; examined the doors, and found them securely 
locked and bolted as I had left them on the previous 
night.” 


342 


Gloria. 


“ And so you were convinced that no one was con- 
cealed in your chamber, or could have entered it during 
the night.” 

“Yes, I am convinced of that.” 

“ David Lindsay, what do you think of this yourself ?” 

“ I do not know what to think. It was less like a 
dream than like a real visitation.” 

“ Was the mysterious visitant like your mother ?” 

“ I repeat that I did not see the visitant at all. I felt 
her hand upon my forehead. I heard her voice in my 
ear. That was all. But I must say that though she 
called herself my mother, her hand felt much smaller, 
slenderer, softer and lighter than my poor mother’s 
hand, which was large and hard and roughened by 
coarse work ; her voice also was fine and flute-like, 
whereas my dear mother’s voice was deep and strong. 
No ! though I did not see my mysterious visitant, I 
perceived that she must have been a very opposite per- 
son to my own poor mother.” 

“Yet she said she was mother, and mother 
had somewhat to say to you.” 

“Yes, which is an inconsistency with fact ; for my 
poor mother was an orphan from her youth.” 

“And she called you David Gryphyn.” 

“Yes, another inconsistency, since my name is David 
Lindsay — these two incoherencies favor the theory that 
my possi't)le supernatural experience was nothing more 
than a very distinct dream ; for you know dreams are 
notoriously incoherent.” 

“Yes, I know all that; but still, David Lindsay, I 
think there must be something more than a common- 
place dream in what you have just told me. You have 


“ JVas it a. Dream f 


343 


not heard from Dame Lindsay since we left ten days 
ago, have you ?” 

‘‘No. I wrote to her from Washington, and again 
from Staunton ; but of course you know there has been 
no chance of hearing from her.” 

“ And she is old and infirm. She may be ill or dying. 
David Lindsay, I hope you will set out and return to 
her as soon as possible.” 

“ I shall leave here to-morrow. But my dear lady, 
you should have some better protection here than your 
housekeeper and servants. Did you not tell me that 
Miss de Crespigney would be in Washington by the 
first of February ?” 

“ Yes. Why do you ask ? ’ 

“ Because I think she would be the most desirable 
companion that you could have here, and I think if she 
knew your condition she would come to you.” 

“Oh, yes! I know she would! Well thought of, 
David Lindsay ! Aunt Agrippina was to have been in 
Washington this month. The month is nearly out now. 
After the commencement of Lent she will not care to 
stay in the city, as she never goes to any place of amuse- 
ment during that season, so it will be no sacrifice on 
her part to leave Washington,” said Gloria, with anima- 
tion. 

“ Then as I go through the city, I will find out where 
her party is stopping, and call and see her.” * 

“ Yes, David Lindsay, and take a letter from me.” 

“ If you wish.” 

“Yes, I do ; for I must tell her how it all was, and 
she will understand better than most people would, the 
straits to which I have been driven ! She knows Marcel 
and she knows me, and, moreover, she would have con- 


344 


Gloria, 


sidered it a mortal sin for me to have married my Uncle 
Marcel. I will go and get out my writing materials, and 
commence the letter at once,” she exclaimed, rolling up 
her embroidery and rising to leave the room ; but look- 
ing up, she met the eyes of the young man fixed on 
her, and full of the disappointment and sorrow that he 
could not always banish from them. 

“ Oh, David Lindsay, can you ever forgive me for the 
great wrong I have done you ?’ ’ she cried, dropping into 
her chair again and covering her face with both hands. 

He did not say that there was nothing to forgive ; 
that no wrong had been done him ; he could not speak 
so falsely even to soothe her whom he loved so fondly 
and so unselfishly. He had been asked to marry her, 
and then had been rejected at the altar. He had 
been deprived of his liberty, and then bitterly disap- 
pointed and humiliated. This was a deep wrong, and 
he felt it very acutely. He could not soothe her by any 
smooth denial that it was so, yet neither did he reproach 
her even in his thoughts. 

When she dropped her hands upon her lap, revealing 
her tear-stained face and repeated her question : 

“ Oh, David Lindsay, can you ever, ever forgive me, for 
the great wrong I have done you ?” his heart melted with 
tenderness towards her, he knelt by her side, took her 
limp hands in his own, looked up in her woeful little 
face — ^his -own fine face full of the heavenly light of 
self-renunciation, and said : 

“ Whatever there may be to forgive, dearest, I forgive 
with all my heart and soul. I love you too deeply and 
truly to feel a shade of anger towards you. Never, even 
in my thoughts, have I blame^f you.” 

“ Oh, you are so good and great-hearted, David Lind- 


“ JVas it a Dream 


345 


say ! And I have, in my impulsive selfishness, so 
spoiled your life ! Married you and then refused to be 
your wife, and put it out of your power to wed any 
other woman !” she cried, weeping bitterly. 

“ No, Gloria, no, dear, do not reproach yourself with 
that last consequence, for it is not true. I love you 
only, and have loved you only all the days of my life. 
I could not, and cannot change. So even if I had not 
married you I could never have married any other 
woman. Put that cause of self-reproach out of your 
mind, Gloria.” 

She was crying so convulsively that she could not 
speak for some time. When she could, her hands 
clasped his, and she sobbed forth : 

“ And I love you^ David Lindsay ! Oh, I do ! I do ! 
I do ! I do love you, so dearly I You feel so near to me, 
David Lindsay ; just like my own heart and soul ; but I 
don't want to be married ! That is, I know I am mar- 
ried, but I don't want to be !” 

He made no sort of reply to this tirade. 

Oh, David Lindsay, I ^<?«7want you to go and leave 
me, either. I don't! What should I do without you 
now ? I should cry myself blind ! Oh, David Lindsay, 
how unhappy we are !” 

“ There is a wall between us, dear. I know not what 
it is, but I feel it bitterly. It may be the wall of caste 
or prejudice. I would it were down.” 

“ Ah, Heaven ! so do I. Oh, dear David Lindsay, 
don’t go and leave me. Stay with me, and let us be 
just like brother and sister. Say, darling old playmate, 
won’t you stay and be my brother ?” she pleaded, taking 
his head between her littlt hands, and laying her face 
against his forehead. 


346 


Gloria. 


Now, if he had been a hypocrite, or even a diplomat- 
ist, he would have accepted these terms, and trusted to 
time to win the entire heart of his bride. But he was 
too honest, open and straightforward, and though his 
frame shook with emotion, and his voice was well-nigh 
suffocated, he answered firmly : 

“ No, Gloria. No, dearest. What you ask is beyond 
human nature ; or, at least, beyond mine.” 

She cried hard for a few minutes, and then suddenly 
clasped his head again as he knelt beside her, dropped 
her own upon it, and sobbed forth her submission : 

“ Well, then take me ! Take me ! I will keep my 
vow ! I will be your wife, David Lindsay !” 

And now if his great love had not been utterly 
without self-love he would have taken her at her word. 

But, still shaking with a storm of emotion, still speak- 
ing in an almost expiring voice, he answered : 

“ It is your pity that speaks now, my dearest. You 
feel grieved for me, and in the pity of your heart you 
are willing to give up all your late repugnance, and 
sacrifice yourself to my happiness. Yes, even as you 
once feared you would do in the case of your guar- 
dian — ” 

“ But oh, David Lindsay, it is so different ! It would 
have been a mortal sin for me to have been Marcel’s 
wife. It seems to me now it would be a sin not to be 
yours !” wept Gloria. 

“You think and speak on an impulse, dearest, that 
you would repent. You would be sure to repent it ; 
and then, Gloria, I should be most wretched indeed. 
No, love, I must not take advantage of this pity you feel, 
for it is nothing else, Gloria. To-morrow I must leave 


‘'Was it a Dream ?'" 


347 


you. It is my duty to do so. I will send your aunt, Miss 
de Crespigney, to you — " 

“ Oh ! David Lindsay, but my heart will break !’* 

No, no, love ! Listen to me. Try yourself, dear- 
est. Find out what will make you happy. Now you 
suffer from a generous, tender sympathy with me, which 
is not love, not the love my soul craves, and you think I 
will be unhappy. I shall not be so, dearest. I shall be 
actively engaged in doing my duty." 

“ Oh, but it is not only for you, David Lindsay, it is 
for myself that I am grieving. I shall miss you so 
much !" 

Because I have been with you for nearly two weeks, 
and you have no one else, except these strangers. But, 
Gloria, in a short time your aunt will be here." 

“ But she will not you r wailed the girl. 

“ Listen further. If, when you have got over this 
pang of parting, and have lived some little time under 
the influence of your aunt, you should then, after calm 
reflection, feel that you could be happy with me, write 
and recall me, and I will be at your feet again, as I am 
now." 

He had controlled himself by a great and sustained 
exertion of his will, and she at last grew quieter under 
his influence. 

“ Dear David Lindsay," she said, with a final sob 
and sigh, “ go, if you feel that you must go, and put 
me on this probation, if you think I need it ! But I shall 
soon write and beg you to come back to me. Be sure 
of that ! And you will come just as soon as I send 
for you, will you not ?" 

“ Just as soon as you write for me," he answered. 

“ And oh, David Lindsay, if I thought you wouldn't 


348 


Gloria. 


— if I thought that anything could happen to prevent 
you from coming back to me — I could never bear to see 
you go. It would break my heart. You will come 
back to me ? Tell me again." 

" I will come back as soon as you send forme." 


The End. 


A Sequel to Gloria is published under the title of 
“ David Lindsay, A Sequel to Gloria f by 
Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth. 


Handsomely bound in cloth. Price $7.00. Paper cover., yo cts. 


BERYL’S HUSBAND 


BY 

Mrs. Harriet Lewis. 


Author of **Lady Kildare;^ Sundered Hearts, He/ 
Double Life,'* etc* 


WITH NUMEROUS WTJZlfBAQB ILLUSTRATIONS BY O* A, TRAVER. 


Paper Cover, 60 cents. Bound in Cloth, $1.00. 


A very charming story. It opens on the shores of Lake Leman, 
in the romantic city of Geneva, under the shadow of Mont Blanc. 
A young English girl, who has been educated at a boarding- 
school at Vevay, is suddenly left without natural guardians and 
means of support. Her beauty and interesting character attract 
a young English traveller, who induces her to run away with him 
and marry him. This is the beginning of a romantic novel of 
extraordinary vicissitudes and adventures. To give an analysis 
of the plot and situations would mar the interest of the reader. 
It is sufficient to say that it is equal to the best of Mrs. Lewis’s 
novels, not excepting '‘Her Double Life” and "Lady Kildare.” 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


A CAPITAL AMERICAN STORY. 


■UNDER A CLOUD. 

BY JEAN KATE LUDLUM. 

Author of Under Oathf etc. 


ILLUSTRATED BY WARREN B. DAVIS. 


12mo. 800 Pagres. Witli Niuneroiis lUiistrations. Handsomely 
Bound in Oloth^ Price, $1.00. Paper Cover, 60 Cents. 


It was once asked by a celebrated Englishman : Who reads 

an American Book ?” The question is no longer a conundrum. 
American books are the popular reading of the present day. 
“ Under a Cloud” is a spirited and pathetic account of the trials 
of a New York lady, who, in consequence of a promise wrung 
from her by her father, is put into relations with her husband 
which are almost unprecedented. The chain of circumstances 
by which the husband is implicated in a crime and the heroic 
efforts of the wife to traverse this chain and unravel the mystery 
make a history of overpowering interest. 

F or sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


A Ifew Novel by the Author of Under Oath." 


JOHN WINTHROP’S DEFEAT. 

BY JEAN KATE LUDLUM. 

ILLUSTRATED BY VICTOR PERARD. 

12mo. Beautifully Illustrated. Handsomely Bound in Cloth, 
Price, $1.00. Paper Cover, 60 Cents. 


Miss Ludlum’s new novel is her best. It is a delightful story 
of life at the famous seaside summer resort on Fire Island, and 
presents a pleasing picture of the gayety and frivolity that reign 
during the heated term in American watering places. There is 
an interesting romance growing out of the vicissitudes of Wall 
Street speculation and the complications of fashionable society. 
The heart of a true woman beneath the silks and laces proves 
stronger than any change that outward fortune brings in the 
circumstances of her life, and she triumphs over every depression. 
There is an abundance of incident, and the scene of the story 
ranges from New York to California, and from Paris to Florence. 
The illustrations add much to the beauty of the book. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


HISTORY OF THE BATTLE OF 
LAKE ERIE. 

AND MISCELLANEOUS PAPERS, 

BY HON. GEORGE BANCROFT, 


With a Sketch of the Life and Writings of George Bancroft, 

BY 

OLIVER DYER, 

Author of Great Senators of the United States f Character 

Sketch of Henry W. Grady f General 

Andrew Jackson f etc. 

18xno. 350 Fagres. With Portrait and Numerous Illustrations. 
Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Uniform with “The New South,” 
By Henry W. Grady. Price, $1.00. 


Hon. George Bancroft’s description of the Battle of Lake Erie 
is one of the finest specimens of historical writings in all literature. 
It is elegant, fiery, picturesque, and absorbingly interesting. It 
brings out the matchless seamanship of the young American 
commander, Oliver Hazard Perry — as well as his heroic fortitude 
and dauntless courage, in a manner to excite emotions of sym- 
pathy and exultations in every American heart. Every one of 
Ml. r>ancroft’s sketches in this volume is written in his best style 
and with consummate literary art. 

Mr. Dyer’s sketch of “ Bancroft’s Life and Writings” is a val- 
uable contribution to biography and to literature. While it gives 
a plain, matter-of-fact account of the great historian’s long and 
useful life, it presents the varied incidents of his unique career in 
such a vivid and picturesque manner as to invest them with 
extraordinary attractiveness. Mr. Dyer’s analysis of Mr. Ban- 
croft’s writings and his presentation of the historian’s literary art 
are accomplished with such felicity that one reads the fascinating 
pages with unflagging interest and increasing appreciation. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 

A 


A NEW NOVEL 

By the Popular Author, Mrs. Amelia E. Barr. 
A' Cheap Edition : Price, 50 Cents. 


THE BEADS OF TASMER. 


BY 

MRS. AMELIA E. BARR. 


WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY WARREN B. DAVIS. 


12mo. 395 Fag-es. Handsomely Bound in Engrlish Cloth Uniform 
with “A Matter of Millions” and “The Forsaken Inn,” By 
Anna Katharine Green. Price, $1.25. Paper Cover, 50 Cents. 

“ The Beads of Tasmer,” by Mrs. Amelia E. Barr, is a power- 
ful and interesting story of Scotch life. The singular and stren- 
uous ambition which a combination of ancient pride and modern 
greed inspires; the loveliness of the Scotch maidens, both High- 
landers and Lowlanders ; the deep religious nature of the people ; 
the intense manifestation of these characteristic traits by Scotch 
lovers of high and low degree; the picturesque life of the coun- 
try, involving the strangest vicissitudes of fortune and the^^hibi- 
tion of the most loving and loyal devotion, constitute a theme 
which is of the highest intrinsic interest, and which is developed 
by the accomplished authoress with consummate art and irresist- 
ible power. “ The Beads of Tasmer ” is certainly one of Mrs. 
Barr’s very best works, and we shall be much mistaken if it does 
not take high rank among the most successful novels of the 
century. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


THE CHOICE SERIES 


1— A MAD BETROTHAL.. By Laura 
Jean Libbey. Clotb, .‘^1.00; paper, 
50 ots. 

2. — HENRY M. STANl.EY. By Henry 

Frederic Reddall. Clotb, 00; paper, 
50 ct8. 

3. — HER DOUBLE LIFE. By Mrs. Har- 

riet Lewis. CloLb, ipl.OO; paper, 50 cts. 

4. — UNKNOWN. By Mrs. E. D. E. N. 

South worth. Cloth, Jpl.OO ; paper, 
50 cts. 

5. — GUNMAKER OF MOSCOW. By 

Sylvanus Cobb, Jr. Cloth, $1.00; 
paper, 50 cts. 

0.— MAUD MORTON. By Major Alfred 
R. Calhoun. Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 
50 cts. 

7. — THE HIDDEN HAND. By Mrs. E. 
V D. E. N. South worth. Cloth, $1.00 ; 

paper, 50 cts. 

8. — SUNDERED HEARTS. By Mrs. Har- 

riet Lewis. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cts. 

9. — THE STONE-CUTTER OF LISBON. 

By Wm. Henry Peck. Cloth, $1.00; 
paper, 50 cts. 

10. — LADY KILDARE. By Mrs. Harriet 

Lewis. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cts. 

11. — CRIS ROCK. By Captain Mayne 

Reid. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cts. 

12. — NEAREST AND DEAREST. By Mrs. 

E. D. E. N. South worth. Cloth, .$1.00 ; 
paper, 50 cts. 

13. — THE BAILIFF’S SCHEME. By Mrs. 

Harriet Lewis. Cloth, .$1.00 ; paper, 
50 cts 

14. — A LEAP IN THE DARK. By Mrs. 

E. D. E. N. Southworth. Cloth, .$1.00 ; 
paper, 50 cts. 

15. — THE OLD LIFE’S SHADOWS. By 

Mrs. Harriet Lewis. Cloth. $1.00 ; 
paper, 50 cts. 

10.— THE LOST LADY OF LONE. By 
Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth. Cloth, 
$1.00; paper, 50 cts. 

17. — lONE. By Laura .lean Libbey. Cloth, 

$1.00 ; paper, 50 cts. 

18. — FOR WOMAN’S LOVE. By Mrs. E. 

I). E. N. Southworth. Cloth, .$1.00; 
paper, 50 cts. 

19. — CESAR BIROTTEAU. By Honors 

He Balzac. Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 
50 cts 

20. — THE BARONESS BLANK. By 

August Niemann. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 
50 cts. 

21. — PARTED BY FATE. By Laura Jean 

Libbey. Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 50 cts. 

22. — THE FORSAKEN INN. By Anna 

Katharine Green. Cloth, $1.50 ; 
paper, 50 cts. 

23. — OTTILIE ASTER’S SILEJ^CE. 

Translated from the German, By Mrs. 
D. M. Lowrey. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 
50 cts. 

24. — EDDA’S BIRTHRIGHT. By Mrs. 

Harriet Lewis. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 
50 cts. V 

25. — THE ALCHEMIST. From the French 

of Honor6 He Balzac. Cloth, $1.00; 
paper, 50 cts. 


26. — UNDER OATH.— An Adirondack 

Story. By Jean Kate Ludlum. Cloth, 
$1.00 ; paper, 50 cts. 

27. — COUSIN PONS. From the French of 

Honor6 He Balzac. Cloth, $1.00; 
paper, 50 cts. 

28. — THE UNLOVED WIFE. By Mrs. E. 

H. E. N. Southworth. Cloth, $1.00; 
paper, 50 cts. 

29. — LILITH. By Mrs. E. H. E. N. South- 

worth. Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 50 cts. 

30. — REUNITED. By A Popular Southern 

Author. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cts. 

31. — MRS. HAROLD STAGG. By Robert 

Grant. Cloth, $1 .00 ; paper, 50 cts. 

32. — THE BREACH OF CUSTOM. Trans- 

lated from the German by Mrs. H. M. 
Lowrey. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 els. 

33. — THE NORTHERN LIGHT. Trans- 

lated from the German of E. Werner. 
Cloth, .$1.00 ; paper, 50 cts. 

34. — BERYL’S HUSBAND. By Mrs. Har- 

riet I.ewis. Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 
50 cts 

35. — A LoVe match. By Sylvanus 

Cobb, Jr. Cloth, .$1.00 ; paper, 50 cts. 

36. — A MATTER OF MILLIONS. By 

Anna Katharine Green. Cloth, .$1.50; 
paper, 50 cts. 

37. — EUGENIE GRANDET. By Honor.* 

He Balzac. Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 50 cts. 

38. — THE IMIMtOVISATORE. Translated 

from the Hanish of Hans Christian 
Andersen. Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 50 cts. 

39. — PAOI.I, THE WARRIOR BISHOP. 

or The Fall of llie ('lirisliniis. By VV. 
C.Kitchin. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cts. 

40. — UNDER A CliOUD. By Jean Kate 

Ludlum. Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 50 cts. 

41. — WIFE AND WOMAN. Translated 

from the German by Mary J. Sattord. 
Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cts. 

42. — A N 1 N S I G N I F 1 C A N T WOMAN. 

Translated from the German of W. 
Heimburg by Mary Stuart Smith. 
Cloth, .$1.00; paper, 50 cts 

43. — THE CARl. ETON’S. By Robert 

Grant. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cts. 

44. — MADEMOI SELliE DESROCHES. 

Translated from the French of Andr6 
Theuriet, by Meta He Vere. Cloth, 
$1.00 ; paper, 50 cts. 

45. — THE BEADS OF TASMER. By 

Amelia E. Barr. Cloth, $1.25; paper, 
50 ct^'S 

46. — JOHN WINTIIROP’S DEFEAT. By 

Jean Kate Ludlu Cloth, $1.00; 
paper, 50 cts. 

47. — LITTLE HEATHER - BLOSSOM. 

Translated from the German, by 
Mary J. SafTord. Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 
50 cts. 

48. — GLORIA. By Mrs. E. H. E. N. South- 

worth. Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 50 cts. 

49. — DAVID LINDSAY. A sequel to 

Gloria. By Mrs. E. H. E. N. South 
worth. Cloth, $1.00 ; paper, 50 cts. 

50. — THE LITTLE COUNTESS. Trans- 

lated from the German by S. E. Boggs. 
Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cts. 




n, tm i^v • - * _' p-^fKCjCM:* W\ '•' # a: 


«iU’ ■‘^ 




V. 






c>/( 




‘irl 


I'Vjf 


lisv 


'i3 


.r 'r^n 


I 


r; A- VT-x. ■ ’^«3>T<rv i '-Q 


^;P;' ■ •'■%' ''#■• 


LI. i ’ ^ I 






■V 




^4 










^ *-4;., .■• , .:. '.-na : .v 

V iT;S ; ' • , r ^V _ ^'£ » 

L^:,'.si»ii;v‘,-->ai - . Tm 


<i .« 


_» » 


ih 






% I 


« • 


■r¥'*A 


r 


M-T^ • A ' • ■’ .1 

fWr^ /4 -‘b-\, " ' ^ - « •■ 

, . -‘» W ^ . ' > ■ '‘; 


»'M- I , 






ll..^ 








W r I ■ ' ' 


- > 


* '-t '■ *^‘^ ',*?■> •' 

” ^ hit ' -.: ' 


if . J* . , ■ ^ -IS 

1*^ 1 . • J -r- . T- ^ 


J • ^-1 




• ✓ 

I 


. / 


I I 


I • 




$ I 






r 

I: 


• % 

> 




. 4 »‘ i’- 

7 # 


I ^ 




• ^ 


t 


I 


I ' < • • 

'(■■■: 


• * 


‘ V 

l j 

fi^v' 


1 • 




4 ^ 




( 


: I :. 

./v 


vV*' 


' / I 


. 1 




A 

0 


r* 

• I 




.'.• '^r •■ 




« « 


• '»• > ; 


< ' ■ '■ 
t • 

' •' i 


^ I * I 


m * * 


i ^ 


t - 


• » % 


• < 




I 


• 1 




I 



I 

• \ 


\r 

I 




« 



« ' ^ 


4 « 



« ^ 


•N 


■'>< 









- 













i 






I 








